Tne 


SOME  RECENT 
BORZOI  BOOKS 

FRIDAY  NIGHTS 

Ed-ward  Garnttt 

STREAKS  0^  LIFE 
Ethel  At.   Smyth 

THE  RED  GARDEN 
Htnnine  Kthlir 

SONGS  OF  YOUTH 
Mary  Dixtn  Thaytr 

TERTIUM  ORGANUM 
P.  D.   Ousftnsky 

THE  EIGHTEEN-NINETIES 
Holbrook  Jackson 

WAITING  FOR  DAYLIGHT 
H.  M.   Tomlinion 

FRONTIERS  OF  THE  AFTER  LIFB 
Edward  C.  Randall 


THS 


<BISHOT 


'Decorations  by  'Boris  ^Artzybasbtf 


;  COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
:ALFfe£D  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  September,  1922 


Set  «j>,  electrotyped,  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 

Paper  furnished  btl  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  by  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF    AMERICA 


03 


MA/A 


The  authors  are  indebted  to  the  editors  The 
Liberator,  Vanity  Fair  and  The  Bookman  for 
permission  to  reprint  certain  of  the  pieces  in 
this  book. 


Tu  vero  dubitabis  et  indignabere  obire, 

Mortua  quoi  vita  est  prope  jam  vivo  atque  videnti? 

LUCRETIUS,  III. 

Fitti  nel  limo,  dicon :  "Tristi  fummo 

Nell'aer  dolce  che  dal  sol  s'allegra, 
Portando  dentro  accidioso  fummo: 

Or  ci  attristiam  nella  belletta  negra." 

DANTE,  INF.,   III. 

Where  do  we  go  from  here? 

ATTRIBUTED  TO  THE  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER. 


By  Mr.  Bishop:  Lucifer,  The  Fun 
eral  of  Mary  Magdalene,  The 
Death  of  a  Dandy,  The  Funeral 
of  an  Undertaker,  The  Mad 
man's  Funeral,  The  Death  of 
God,  and  Resurrection. 

By  Mr.  Wilson:  The  Preface,  The 
Death  of  the  Last  Centaur,  The 
Funeral  of  a  Romantic  Poet,  The 
Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert, 
The  Death  of  a  Soldier,  Emily  in 
Hades,  and  the  Epilogue. 


Preface  13  ^ 

Prologue:     Lucifer  25  T*& 

I.     The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur  27 

II.     The  Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magda 
lene  39  ?**> 

III.  The  Funeral  of  a  Romantic  Poet  54 

IV.  The  Death  of  a  Dandy  59 
V.     The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    68 

VI.     The  Funeral  of  an  Undertaker  91  ^n 

VII.     The  Death  of  a  Soldier  99 

VIII.     The  Madman's  Funeral  123  -m 

IX.     Emily  in  Hades  129  i  > 

X.     The  Death  of  God  164 

XI.     Resurrection  175 

Epilogue:     Apollo  191  t^ 


PREFACE 

We  have  often  been  asked  what  determined  us  to 
write  a  book  about  death.  It  has  been  pointed  out 
that  we  were  very  young  and  ordinarily  in  the  best 
of  health  and  that  everybody  at  our  age  was  sup 
posed  to  be  bursting  with  life.  We  were  frequently 
reminded  that  Sir  Thomas  Browne  had  been  fifty- 
three  when  he  wrote  his  Urn  Burial  and  that  even 
Jeremy  Taylor  was  thirty-eight  when  he  published 
Holy  Dying.  Indeed,  when  our  purpose  became 
generally  known,  a  certain  alarm  was  manifested, — 
for  the  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  still 
held  in  some  quarters,  so  that  there  are  still  a  num 
ber  of  people  who  stand  in  the  utmost  terror  of 
death.  When  we  assured  the  world  that  we  were 
treating  the  subject  from  a  merely  artistic  point  of 
view  and  that,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  we 
could  give  no  guarantees  of  immortality,  because  we 
neither  of  us  believed  that  any  God  in  his  senses 
would  be  willing  to  provide  eternal  life  for  such 
feeble  virtues  as  our  own,  we  were  warned  that,  in 
dealing  thus  with  death,  we  were  attempting  a  very 
dangerous  experiment  and  probably  jeopardizing  in 
valuable  souls  by  a  wanton  act  of  impiety.  Certain 
individuals  high  in  the  Church  even  wrote  us 
threatening  letters. 

But,  on  the  whole,  in  the  America  of  today  im- 

13 


14  Preface 

mortality  is  a  dead  issue.  With  the  preoccupation 
with  material  things,  with  prosperity  and  produc 
tion,  the  New  Jerusalem  has  faded.  Or  rather  it 
has  been  brought  to  earth.  For,  whereas  the  bour 
geoisie  are  comfortable  and  consequently  do  not  need 
consolation  for  the  miseries  of  this  life  in  the  prizes 
of  the  next,  those  members  of  the  proletariat  who 
are  not  eager  to  become  bourgeois  themselves  have 
attempted  to  render  life  endurable,  not  by  the  Para 
dise  of  the  early  Christians,  but  simply  by  imagining 
a  future  earth  transformed  by  justice  and  plenty. 
In  all  cases,  it  is  earth,  not  Heaven,  that  the  people 
are  counting  on;  the  interest  in  Paradise  has 
cooled  greatly  since  the  Middle  Ages. 

We  have  therefore  really  been  troubled  very  little 
by  complaints  at  our  lack  of  faith.  It  is  rather  the 
gloominess  of  our  theme  which  has  provoked  the 
most  objection;  for,  in  America,  the  gloomier  as 
pects  of  life  have  till  lately  been  banned  from  lit 
erature.  To  refer  to  them  had  constituted  a  sin 
against  our  conception  of  ourselves,  against  the 
illusion  that  life  in  America  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired.  To  admit  the  possibility  of  pain  has 
amounted  to  an  unpatriotic  act.  So  that,  even 
though  death  is  a  disaster  as  common  in  America  as 
elsewhere,  it  has  never  been  as  popular  a  subject 
among  us  as  it  has  for  example  in  Italy.  We  have,  in 
fact,  been  warned  many  times  that  we  were  de 
liberately  making  our  book  unpopular  and  that  we 
should  never  be  able  to  sell  it. 


Preface  15 

Why,  however,  in  spite  of  this  discouragement, 
we  have  persisted  in  our  project  to  the  end  will,  we 
hope,  be  more  easily  understood  when  our  careers 
have  been  considered  a  little  and  the  influences  to 
which  we  have  been  subjected  have  been  studied  in 
relation  to  our  work. 

We  were  both  educated  at  Princeton  University 
just  before  the  United  States  entered  the  war.  In 
that  most  carefree  of  all  the  colleges,  where  Apollo 
lies  slumbrous  and  lazy,  we  occasionally  caught 
from  the  lips  of  the  god  an  oracle  muttered  in  sleep 
and  though  we  conducted  ourselves  in  such  a  way 
as  not  to  be  publicly  stoned  by  our  fellows,  we  really 
succeeded,  none  the  less,  in  breathing  with  a  certain 
freedom.  It  was  only  after  we  left  Princeton  that 
our  thoughts  were  turned  away  from  life.  It  was 
when  the  old  base-ball  fields  were  transformed  into 
drill-grounds,  and  the  class-rooms  where  we  had 
learned  French  and  Greek  were  abandoned  to  artil 
lery  courses.  It  was  when  we  both  found  ourselves 
in  the  army  and  were  sent  to  France. 

But,  reader,  do  not  be  alarmed!  You  will  find 
no  tales  of  heroism  here.  We  were  neither  of  us 
ever  in  much  danger  of  getting  killed  ourselves. 
But  to  any  one  not  elevated  in  a  pulpit  or  barricaded 
behind  an  editorial  desk  the  overpowering  presence 
of  death,  that  stood  darkly  in  every  heart,  seemed 
to  rob  the  very  sun  of  its  splendor  and  make  the 
stars  stab  him  like  knives.  No  matter  how  rich 
men's  minds  had  been  or  how  full  of  joy  and  life, 


16  Preface 

they  were  all  turned  now  without  release  to  the  busi 
ness  of  bringing  death.  The  very  quartermaster  who 
matched  suits  was  preparing  shrouds  for  men  to  die 
in ;  the  very  worker  in  the  hospital  who  patched  up 
the  gas  and  shell  wounds  was  only  getting  men  in 
shape  to  die  and  to  inflict  death.  The  air  of  the 
whole  world  seemed  poisoned  with  decay;  one  could 
escape  it  nowhere;  one  choked  in  the  very  autumn 
clearness  and  the  winds  of  spring,  which  were 
tainted  now  with  the  foulness  of  those  seven  million 
dead. 

All  Europe  reached  a  point  at  last  where  it  could 
think  of  nothing  but  death.  It  could  no  longer  be 
muse  itself  with  rhetoric  into  forgetting  the  reali 
ties  of  the  front  nor  ignore  the  collapse  of  six  great 
nations  in  the  unchanged  routine  of  home.  If  it 
continued  to  indulge  in  death,  it  would  certainly  die 
of  its  vice.  For  the  victor,  scarcely  less  than  for 
the  vanquished,  there  could  be  nothing  but  starva 
tion  and  despair.  Hungry,  without  heart  and  help 
less,  they  could  not  even  put  a  bold  face  on  their 
work;  they  could  hardly  keep  themselves  alive  any 
longer  for  the  purpose  of  being  killed. 

And  then  the  war  came  to  a  close  (after  twenty- 
four  hours'  delay)  and  Marshal  Foch  entered  Metz 
on  the  back  of  a  white  horse.  But  it  was  too  late 
for  people  to  enjoy  this  triumph  as  perhaps  they 
should  have  done.  In  its  overwhelming  weakness 
and  exhaustion,  which  had  stultified  sorrow  itself, 
Europe  could  hardly  raise  a  paean  of  victory  or 


Preface  17 

utter  a  cry  of  relief.  The  people  could  only  strike 
dully  against  the  oppression  of  their  own  States; 
they  could  no  longer  think  much  beyond  their  sacri 
fices  to  the  cause  in  which  they  had  been  made  nor 
feel  much  more  anger  against  an  enemy  as  miserable 
as  themselves.  The  newspapers  were  still  grieving, 
to  be  sure,  that  the  official  killing  was  done,  for, 
though  prodigious  enthusiasts  for  death,  they  were 
more  interested  in  the  slaughter  at  the  front  than  in 
the  slaughter  of  the  new  generation  which  was  just 
being  born  at  home.  But  people  began  to  wonder 
whether  the  real  conflict  was  the  one  which  had 
come  to  an  end  with  the  white  horse  of  Marshal 
Foch  and  the  occupation  of  Metz ;  and  the  men  who 
had  been  fighting  side  by  side  for  going  on  five  years, 
now  that  they  found  themselves  at  home,  turned 
their  machine  guns  on  each  other. 

The  spring  came  to  France  like  a  benediction,  with 
spaciousness  and  calm,  yet  from  every  quarter  one 
heard  nothing  but  the  harsh  cries  of  death — of 
boundary  and  civil  war,  of  massacre  and  assassina 
tion.  It  appeared  that  the  human  race  was  com 
posed  exclusively  of  enemies  who  were  intent  on 
making  use  of  any  pretext  to  achieve  their  neigh 
bour's  extinction,  even  at  the  cost  of  their  own.  One 
wondered  in  dismay  if  there  were  any  concessions 
(even  of  the  sacred  principle  of  property)  too  great 
to  be  made  for  the  purpose  of  balking  the  contagion 
of  death  and  restoring  to  that  agonized  continent  the 
freedom  of  life  again.  When  the  time  came  for  us 


1 8  Preface 

to  leave  Europe  we  departed  with  relief — with  the 
vision  of  returning  to  a  land  of  prosperity  and  good 
feeling. 

But  it  was  not  the  Statue  of  Liberty — for  which 
the  soldiers  had  longed — that  first  met  our  eyes  as 
the  symbol  of  the  country  to  which  we  were  return 
ing:  it  was  the  black  chimneys  of  factories  that 
soiled  the  very  summer  dawn,  shedding  darkness 
from  their  upthrust  arms  as  the  Statue  could  never 
shed  light. 

For  hitherto  we  had  seen  very  little  of  our  native 
civilization.  In  France  we  had  thought  confidently 
of  America  as  a  place  where  life  still  ran  high;  but  in 
America  we  found  that  life  itself  had  become  a  sort 
of  death,  and  we  longed  for  the  Sorbonne  hill  where 
even  Dante  had  once  come  and  where  the  humanities 
still  kept  their  freshness  in  the  dustiest  of  the  book 
shops,  and  for  the  amorous  evenings  of  May,  full  of 
soft  and  merry  voices,  that  lie  lightly  over  Paris. 

At  home,  the  humanities  had  little  chance  against 
the  Anti-Vice  Society  and  the  commercialism  and  in 
dustrialism  which  had  caught  up  the  very  professors 
from  the  great  universities;  and  as  for  poor  volupte, 
she  had  died  in  the  blank  grey  streets:  for  New 
York  was  no  more  fitted  for  love  than  it  was  de 
signed  for  art.  Our  countrywomen  seemed  strange 
creatures  after  the  kind  witty  smiles  of  the  French 
and  at  first  we  could  hardly  tell  them  from  the  men 
except  by  the  fact  that  they  were  duller. 

No:  even  in  the  America  of  peace-time  we  looked 


Preface  19 


for  life  in  vain.  Our  cries  "for  madder  music  and 
for  stronger  wine"  met  with  absolutely  no  response, 
and  we  were  informed  that  any  attempt  to  get  the 
latter  would  be  considered  a  criminal  offence.  For 
money,  it  appeared,  was  the  thing  to  get,  not  music 
nor  wine.  Men  denied  themselves  music  and  wine, 
and  everything  else  that  makes  life  amiable;  they 
gave  themselves  up  to  incessant  labours,  with  aus 
terity,  with  consecration.  They  secluded  them 
selves  in  bleak  offices,  like  anchorites  in  cells :  their 
relations  with  their  associates  became  more  frigid 
than  those  of  the  strictest  religious  order  and  their 
very  correspondence  was  dictated  in  a  bare  and 
graceless  style,  more  barbarous  than  the  poorest 
Latin  of  a  mediaeval  monk. 

But  it  was  not  for  the  same  reasons  as  the  saints 
that  men  had  renounced  the  colours  of  life.  The 
great  ascetics  had  mortified  the  flesh  that  they  might 
live  more  intensely  in  the  spirit.  But  the  business 
man  despised  the  spirit  even  more  than  he  despised 
the  flesh.  His  purpose  in  his  barren  existence  of 
severity  and  application,  in  ignoring  alike  the  ques 
tioning  mind  and  the  flaming  imagination,  was  sim 
ply  to  make  something  cheap  and  to  sell  it  to  some 
body  dear — a  pasteboard  suit-case,  an  alfalfa  cig 
arette,  a  paraffin  chocolate  bar.  And  to  this  end  he 
set  thousands  of  his  fellows  to  the  most  monotonous 
and  exhausting  labour — a  labour  which  reduced 
young  men  and  women  to  such  a  dreary  stultification 
that  they  hardly  knew  how  to  enjoy  themselves  when 


20  Preface 


they  came  blinking  from  their  confinement  into  the 
sour  air  of  the  city  and  the  hardness  of  the  streets — 
a  labour  which  reduced  human  hands  (that  had 
made  so  many  fine  things)  to  the  offices  of  levers  and 
shafts  and  demanded  of  the  human  mind  (which  had 
spun  so  many  myths)  that  it  confine  its  entire  atten 
tion  to  a  single  mechanical  act,  performed  again  and 
again — a  labour,  in  short,  which  took  the  manufac 
ture  of  conveniences  and  of  luxuries  and  of  nuisances 
for  the  end  of  life  itself,  and  compelled  mankind  to 
make  itself  miserable  in  the  production  of  comfort. 

And  as  a  result  of  this  system  we  found  civil  war 
in  America  scarcely  less  acute  than  that  of  Europe. 
We  were  confronted  with  a  colossal  strike  in  which 
citizens  were  terrorised  and  murdered  for  believing 
that  twelve  hours  a  day  was  too  long  to  work  in  a 
blast-furnace.  A  revolt  against  the  intolerable  life 
of  the  steel  mills  and  the  mines  was  punished  with 
a  repression  and  a  blackguardism  which  we  thought 
had  been  exorcised  forever  when  the  Czar's  knout 
was  broken.  And  it  was  not  only  among  labourers 
that  free  speech  and  free  assemblage  were  done 
away  with:  so  panic-stricken  had  the  employers  be 
come  for  fear  they  should  be  made  to  lose  money 
that  they  arrested  citizens  without  warrant,  de 
ported  aliens  without  trial  and  were  finally  able  to 
revoke  elections  to  one  of  the  state  assemblies  by 
refusing  to  admit  the  representatives  whom  the 
people  had  legally  chosen. 

This  should,  of  course,  have  meant  a  vindication 


Preface  21 

by  the  people  of  their  rights,  but  public  opinion  was 
dead;  it  was  left  entirely  to  the  newspapers.  The 
citizens  of  the  Republic  did  not  know  that  they  had 
any  rights.  At  a  time  when  it  was  possible  for  a 
Socialist  to  be  elected  Prime  Minister  of  monarchic 
Sweden,  it  was  impossible  for  Socialist  representa 
tives  to  keep  their  seats  in  an  American  assembly; 
the  people  remained  completely  indifferent  to  a  pro 
vocation  more  politically  vital  than  that  which  had 
thrown  all  Paris  into  turmoil  at  the  time  of  the 
Dreyfus  case.  The  Americans  would  let  the  rich 
employers  do  anything  to  them  they  pleased  because 
they  all  hoped  enthusiastically  to  become  rich  em 
ployers  themselves. 

Not,  however,  that  the  employers  derived  much 
life  from  the  death  they  inflicted  on  others.  As  re 
pressed  and  exhausted  as  their  employees  and  driven 
by  a  fiercer  strain,  they  not  infrequently  broke  down 
when  they  had  arrived  at  middle  age  and  the 
many  nerve  sanitariums  were  full  of  bewildered 
millionaires  who  had  found  time  at  last  to  wonder 
where  they  had  been  going  so  fast.  Their  children, 
grown  up  in  a  world  of  bourgeois  ideals,  where  the 
emphasis  which  their  grandfathers  had  placed  on 
religion  had  been  shifted  to  respectability,  learned 
no  aristocratic  freedom  with  the  freedom  which 
money  gave  them.  Too  often  they  docilely  acceded 
to  the  office  chairs  of  their  fathers  and,  if  they  had 
latent  superior  qualities  of  imagination  or  intelli 
gence,  would  be  distracted  at  their  desks  by  unin- 


22  Preface 

telligible  longings  for  another  manner  of  life  of 
which  they  had  never  been  told.  So  they  carried 
on  their  fathers'  work  by  upholding  as  their  moral 
philosophy  the  commandments  of  sobriety  and  effi 
ciency  which  they  religiously  taught  their  employees 
and  to  which  they  themselves  were  slaves. 

Can  you  wonder  that  we  thought  much  of  death? 
that  it  finally  became  an  obsession  with  us?  The 
city  streets  where  we  walked  were  as  deep  and  as 
dark  as  graves;  the  great  buildings  seemed  to  us 
like  tombs  where  the  dead  lay  tier  on  tier.  Wher 
ever  the  characteristic  activity  of  our  time  had 
passed,  the  earth  appeared  charred  and  sterile,  lit 
tered  with  rubbish  and  bones.  We  found  our 
hymns  to  beauty  and  to  love  all  turning  into  funeral 
dirges  and,  instead  of  our  old  witty  trifles,  we  fell 
to  writing  epitaphs.  In  a  word,  our  environment 
and  age  have  at  last  proved  too  strong  for  us,  and, 
in  a  spirit  which  we  honestly  hope  is  one  of  loyal 
Americanism,  we  have  decided  that  we  shall  best 
interpret  our  country  in  a  book  devoted  to  death. 

We  do  not,  however,  for  a  moment,  claim  to  be 
original  in  this.  We  know  well  that  the  plan  of  our 
work  is  anything  but  novel.  In  the  first  quarter  of 
the  XVth  century,  when  France  seemed  scarcely  to 
live,  impoverished,  devastated  and  anarchic  with 
confused  and  terrible  wars,  there  was  current  a 
form  of  public  entertainment  called  the  Dance 
of  Death.  Torture  and  assassination  and  famine 
and  plague,  as  well  as  the  foreign  and  civil  wars 


Preface  23 

that  swept  back  and  forth  across  the  country,  had 
made  the  people  of  the  XVth  century  as  familiar 
with  death  and  the  dead  as  the  people  of  our  own 
time  were  to  become  five  hundred  years  later.  But 
they  dramatized  the  horror  of  their  lives  in  a  kind 
of  comic  morality,  which  was  still  popular  as  a  sub 
ject  for  artists  as  late  as  the  great  Holbein.  In 
these  pictures  one  sees  a  sprightly  skeleton  either 
dancing  at  the  head  of  a  procession  or  coming 
separately  and  unexpectedly  to  each  one  of  his  vic 
tims  in  turn:  he  breaks  the  armour  of  the  Knight, 
speeds  the  Ploughman  on  his  last  furrow  and  diverts 
the  Astrologer  from  his  globe  by  thrusting  a  skull 
under  his  nose ;  in  the  guise  of  a  peasant,  he  fells  the 
Count  with  his  own  heavy  'scutcheon  and  slips  a 
necklace  of  dead  men's  bones  about  the  Countess's 
neck;  he  breaks  the  Judge's  staff  and  poisons  the 
King's  wine;  he  tears  the  Abbess  from  her  convent 
and  the  hat  from  the  Cardinal's  head;  and  he  finally 
carries  off  the  Pope  himself  in  the  act  of  crowning 
somebody  king. 

Yes:  at  the  darkest  point  of  the  Middle  Ages 
people  made  a  farce  of  death.  To  the  people  of 
the  XVth  century  death  itself  had  more  life  in  it  than 
life  has  today. 


Lucifer 

I  plodded  homeward  through  the  snow  and  stubble, 

A  wallet  heavy  with  junk  upon  my  back, 
And  saw  the  sun,  a  fire-distended  bubble, 

Sway  over  the  stiff  trees  grown  flat  and  black. 
And  as  the  sun,  perceptibly  descended, 

Tumbled  a  cloud  of  carmine  to  the  snow, 
A  god  came  striding  through  the  tree  boles,  splendid 

In  pride  of  youth,  naked,  bearing  a  bow. 
I  dropped  my  pack  and  raced  across  the  hollow, 

Stumbled,  and  sank  knee-deep  in  drifts,  and  cried: 
"God  of  the  silver  bow,  divine  Apollo, 

It  is  not  true  that  you  with  Hellas  died!" 
With  the  profound  tenderness  of  a  sage  or  brother, 

The  god  turned,  and  tremendous  thunder  flamed: 
et Apollo  died  long  ago.     I  am  that  other 

Who  sang.     For  me  the  morning  star  was  named." 


The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur 


/cat    Kevravpov,    dya/cAvTOv    Evpimwva, 
aacr*  m  /neydpa)  jjityaOvfJiov  Ila/ai^ooto, 
es  Aa7Ti'0as  cA0ov0'-  6  8'  «r£i  <£pevas  acurcv 
*dV  epe£c  SO/AOV  Kara 

iXe,  Sic/c  irpoOvpov  8e  6v 

,  VTT'  ovara  V7/Aet 
ptva?  T'  d/x^o'avTcs*  6  8c  (frptcrlv  *J<T 
^iev  ^v  ar^v  o^ecov  aeai<j>povi  ^v/xw 

Odyssey  t  XXI 

The  Scene  is  Greenwich  Village. 

It  is  time  for  me  to  die  :    I  have  no  place 

Among  you  save  this  cold  and  fetid  stall, 
Where  clotted  cobwebs  make  a  dingy  lace 

For  dusty  windows  and  against  the  wall 
Hangs  rotting  harness  from  some  vanished  hack. 

Soon  there  will  be  no  stables  left  at  all 
In  towns  like  this  !  —  since  now,  it  seems,  you  lack 

Not  only  men,  but  horses  even,  here 
Where  men  are  moved  along  a  metal  track. 

In  such  a  world  my  bones  will  have  no  bier: 
You  will  bray  my  bones  to  dust,  to  scatter  fine 

Among  your  crops  ;  you  will  sell  my  carcass  dear 
For  potted  meat;  you  will  sell  these  hoofs  of  mine  — 

These  hoofs  that  first  brought  fire  from  Pelion. 

27 


28        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

I  shall  have  no  burial — I,  who  am  half  divine !  .  .  . 

Ixion  was  my  father,  Ares'  son; 
My  mother  was  a  cloud ;  and  I  was  born 

In  that  lost  world  that,  waking  to  the  sun, 
By  the  clear  light  of  an  untarnished  morn, 

Beheld  in  every  form  that  moved  and  shone 
The  candid  nobleness  and  beauty  worn 

By  children  and  by  gods. — But  I,  alone, 
Surviving  all  my  kind,  beheld  the  dawn 

Fade  like   a  flower's  freshness  that,  full-blown, 
Is  over-blown  and,  with  loose  lips  a-yawn, 

Scatters  petals  and  rank  fragrance,  till,  at  last, 

When  all  the  heroes  and  the  gods  were  gone, 

Hearing  tales  of  how  the  giant  race  had  passed 
Beyond  the  sea,  where,  ploughing  a  fresh  ground, 

They  fashioned  palaces  superb  and  vast, 
I  sailed  to  this  new  continent  and  found 

Great  buildings  and  great  labours,  but,  here,  too, 
For  all  the  monstrous  bulk  and  terrible  sound, 

No  heroes  and  no  gods. — Nay,  even  you 
Who  would  buy  Beauty  back  at  bitter  cost — 

A  thing  your  fathers'  fathers  never  knew — 
Would  lose  your  selves  here  where  the  streets  are 
lost, 

Here  where  the  moaning  boats  bring  peace  a 

space, 
With  news  of  oceans  you  have  never  crossed; 

Who  gape  about  me  for  an  ancient  grace 
Falling  palely  now,  as  from  November  sky 


The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur      31 

The  last  cold  light — you  are  not  of  my  race  1  ... 
Hear  then  and  wonder  of  what  race  am  I. 

'From  clouds  that  were  our  kindred; 

From  forests  wild  and  wet; 
From  meadows  drowzy  with  dull  gold, 

That  kept  the  bright  day  yet — 
We  came,  like  thunder  from  the  hills, 

Before  the  sun  was  set. 

The  summer  air  that  slept  so  still, 

A  tideless  pond  of  gold, 
Cut  past  the  bent  bows  of  our  breasts 

Like  rapids,  swift  and  cold; 
And  shepherds,  when  they  heard  our  hoofs, 

Drove  in  their  flocks  to  fold. 

We  leapt,  with  brief  and  brutal  shouts 

Of  hunt  and  feast  and  war; 
We  ground  the  thickets  low  like  grass 

Nor  felt  what  flesh  they  tore; 
Till,  wildly  clamouring,  we  stamped 

Before  the  bridegroom's  door. 

Our  kinsmen  crowded  to  the  sill 

To  welcome  us  inside — 
Our  kinsmen,  strong  as  we;  yet  men 

They  were  and  by  our  side 
Their  strength  was  dwarfed,  as  men  who  walk 

Are  dwarfed  by  men  who  ride. 


32        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

They  lifted  silver  basins  up 
To  rinse  our  fingers  clean; 

They  brought  us  wine  in  bowls  of  gold 
To  honour  their  new  queen — 

A  wine  as  black  as  mountain  pools, 
Where  Hecate  is  seen — 

A  wine  that  opens  wide  the  heart; 

A  rude  tremendous  blast 
That  bids  the  fettered  soul  stand  free, 

Gay,  arrogant  and  vast — 
The  prisoned  master  of  the  man 

Become  true  lord  at  last. 

Twelve  bowls  I  drank  of  that  great  wine 

And  stood  a  god  revealed ! 
And  I  was  Heracles,  whose  hand 

Had  made  the  hydra  yield — 
Who  bore  the  monstrous  carcass  home 

As  soldiers  bear  a  shield! 

I  watched  the  bride,  an  eager  flame 

Of  saffron  and  of  red; 
I  longed  to  crush  her  breasts,  to  bite 

Her  lips  until  they  bled; 
I  laughed  at  such  a  hoofless  whelp 

Lord  of  the  bridal  bed. 

I  laughed  and,  bellowing  with  desire, 
With  furious  hoofs  that  spurned 


The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur       33 

Great  bodies  stretched  in  drunkenness, 

Great  tables  overturned, 
I  plunged  against  the  heavy  air 

And  snatched  her  where  she  burned.     , 

And  roof  and  hills  and  heaven  itself 

Crashed  down  about  my  ears! 
Unleashed,  they  slit  my  nose  with  knives; 

They  ripped  my  side  with  spears; 
Their  torches  bit  my  very  bone ! 

My  eyes  were  black  with  tears  I 

But  still  I  bore  the  bride  aloft, 

Through  all  the  blows  and  cries, 
Till,  biting  the  muscles  of  my  arms, 

Spitting  blood  in  my  eyes, 
She  writhed  away  with  sinewy  limbs 

The  mountains  had  made  wise. 

But  I,  all  blind  and  hacked  and  mad, 

Drawing  now  at  last  my  sword, 
Struck  out  the  door  and  charged  the  night, 

That  like  a  river  roared, 
Till,  stumbling  in  a  stream,  I  stopped, 

Stood  sweating  in  the  ford. 

Then  first  I  knew  that  morning  was  at  hand, 
For  the  air  was  clear  and  gray  and  I  could  see 

My  bosom  foul  with  blood  and  the  cruel  brand; 
And  while  I  flung  chill  water  about  me, 


34        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

That  bit  my  flesh  more  fiercely  than  the  bride 

With  those  fox's  teeth  of  hers — then  suddenly 
The  windows  of  the  East  were  opened  wide, 

Letting  through  the  skies  of  day,  the  summer 

skies, 
Above  the  shadowy  mountains.     But  I  sighed 

And,  turning  in  weariness  my  aching  eyes 
From  the  blinding  wind  of  silver  Phoebus  shakes 

From  limbs  of  fire,  I  climbed  a  little  rise 
To  a  wet  green  wood  all  strewn  with  silver  flakes 

Of  shattered  light.     It  was  quiet  there.     I  stood 
And  heard  the  first  birds  stirring  in  the  brakes 

And  thought  how  all  my  load  of  wine  and  blood 
Would  be  loosed  by  gentle  sleep ;  and  a  strange  awe 

Came  on  me,  a  strange  awe  that  stilled  the  wood, 
As  if  for  a  god's  presence  and  I  saw 

Of  a  sudden,  beneath  a  dark  laurel,  noble  and 

grave,  , 

An  ancient  centaur,  moveless  as  the  law 

Whereto  the  mightiest  god  is  but  a  slave, 
That  not  the  wisest  god  may  understand — 

Who  watched  me  with  eyes  clear  green  like  a 

summer  wave 
That  comes  to  hush  its  roaring  on  the  sand 

And  hard  as  pebbles,  smoothed  and  smoothed 

anew, 
It  laps  in  ebbing  home — so  straight  and  grand 

His  gaze,  I  trembled  terribly,  for  I  knew 
That  this  was  Cheiron,  subtle  Cronos'  son, 

The  subtlest  among  mortals,  and  gods,  too> 


The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur      35 

Who  had  reared  great  lords  and  kings,  yet  flattered 
in  one, 

^Whose  tongue  knew  neither  insolence  nor  fear. 
And  I  heard  his  steady  voice:     "Eurytion! 

What  false  and  violent  deed  has  brought  you  here 
To  blink  at  morning?"     Then,  as  I  stood  ashamed: 

"You  have  no  need  to  tell  me  with  what  spear 
Your  side  is  torn  nor  with  what  wine  enflamed 

You  have  done  us  this  dishonour :  well  I  know, 
Knowing  all,  how — brutal,  childish  and  untamed — 

You  have  wronged  our  hosts  and  kinsmen,  turned 

to  foe 
By  the  folly  of  a  boy!     And  I  forsee 

The  hatred  and  the  labour  and  the  woe 
That  must  waste  our  years  in  conflict,  till  we  flee 

From  Pelion,  lost  and  broken. — Ah,  insane ! 
Ah,  wretched  race,  that  never  will  be  free  I 

What  peace  can  ever  win  you  from  your  pain? 
What  life  can  ever  lure  you  from  your  death? 

Twelve  ages  have  I  reared  to  fight  and  reign 
Your  very  heroes — teaching  them  the  faith 

In  strength  and  skill  and  honour,  and  to  dare 
To  follow  even  beyond  the  world  the  breath 

Of  unknown  seas ;  and  strength  and  skill  were  fair, 
But  honour  they  forgot. — For  Jason,  at  last 

Forgetting  Colchis  and  the  long  despair, 
Forgetting  that  strange  love  that,  in  a  blast, 

Blazed  down  and  burnt  him  up,  one  breathless 

night 
Between  two  days  of  terror,  came  to  cast 


36        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Medea  and  her  children  from  his  sight; 
And  Achilles,  when  his  enemy  lay  slain, 

Befouled  and  broke  his  limbs  in  savage  spite — 
A  better  man  than  he. — but  direr  stain 

Is  yet  to  be — for  Heracles,  the  blind, 
Made  drunk  with  stolen  wine,  became  immane, 

Shall  slay  his  master,  Cheiron,  from  behind — 
And  all  my  close-kept  memories  and  all 

The  calm  and  noble  music  of  my  mind 
Shall  be  lost  for  a  jar  of  wine  and  a  drunken 
brawl!" 

He  ceased,  and  I  faltered  piteously,  in  shame : 
"You  blame  me  justly,  master,  for  our  fall — " 

UI  never  blamed  you!     I  find  none  to  blame !" 
He  cried.     "It  was  not  you  who  made  your  soul 

Seek  greatness  in  wine  nor  set  your  flesh  aflame 
For  a  bright-eyed  woman  in  a  saffron  stole. — 

Not  even  myself  I  blame,  who  cannot  right 
So  many  wrongs :     It  was  not  I  who  stole 

Man's  godlike  heart  away  with  greed  and  fright! 
It  was  not  I  who  made  a  jest  of  it — 

And  Heracles  a  fool,  for  all  his  might, 
And  Odysseus  a  knave,  for  all  his  wit ! 

I  did  not  work  to  drive  with  cruel  whips 
Orestes  to  his  crime  nor,  mad,  admit 

One  like  a  lover  to  his  mother's  lips 
Who,  blameless,  paid  in  anguish  that  poor  joy! 


The  Death  of  the  Last  Centaur      37 

It  was  not  I  who  sped  the  Grecian  ships 
And  brought  the  years  of  darkness  against  Troy, 

Because  a  fair  kind  girl  had  been  so  quick 
To  yield  her  body  to  an  eager  boy, 

When  kisses  had  grown  long!    Nay,  I  am  sick 
Of  blame  and  blaming!    I  shall  stand  and  wait 

For  death  to  take  my  light  by  that  base  trick — 
In  silence,  under  a  laurel,  gazing  straight, 

Not  wild  with  tears  nor  loud  with  anger  now 
For  that  which  once  had  burst  me  with  their  spate 

And  made  my  boy's  blood  thunder  at  my  brow : 
The  rivers  robbed  of  song;  the  darkened  sun; 

Love  balked  of  love  and  both  alike  brought  low; 
The  fading  smoke  of  Troy  her  victors  won ; 

The  proudest  honour  pledged  to  serve  a  lie.  .  .  . 
My  works  are  all  dishonoured  and  undone; 

I  stand  among  ruins;  naught  but  this  have  I : 
To  hold,  without  hope  or  armies,  my  hard  post 

Against  Fate  and  the  Furies,  under  the  sky." 

Say,  you  who  boldly  of  your  wisest  boast 

They  know  more  than  their  fathers,  have  they 

told 

Their  scholars  more  than  Chciron  knew? — at  most, 
Do  you  heed  them  more  than  I  heeded  him  of 

old?— 
|For,  when  he  had  dressed  my  wounds  and  I  had 

slept, 
I  woke  to  a  world  of  black  and  broken  gold 


38        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

And,  forgetting  all  his  words,  I  rose  and  leapt 
Like  a  foal  and  drank  the  wind,  the  sea-sharp 
wind 

That  blows  from  the  Aegean — and  I  swept 
The  savage  hills,  with  nothing  in  my  mind 

But  pealing  hoofs  and  forests  black  and  green 
And  great  revenge  to  take  and  loot  to  find 

And  lust  and  battle  and  far  sights  unseen ! 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  MARY  MAGDALENE 

A  street  in  the  poorer  quarter  of  Jerusalem. 
Since  the  houses  of  the  poor  have  changed  but  little 
in  two  thousand  years,  they  need  no  description. 
Under  the  houses  are  shops,  and  the  merchants  of 
fruit,  lentils,  oil,  wine,  cheese  and  fowls  stand  be- 
fore  the  money  tables  prepared  to  bargain.  Inci 
dentally  they  add  considerably  to  the  stench  of  the 
street,  which  is  already  redolent  with  the  refuse  of 
dead  summers. 

The  house  in  the  center  is  noteworthy  as  being 
slightly  more  prosperous  and  certainly  cleaner  than 
the  rest.  The  inhabitants  evidently  have  some 
other  place  to  throw  their  garbage  than  the  street. 
The  awnings  at  the  windows  are  a  bit  frayed  and 
faded  it  is  true,  but  remember  the  former  brilliance 
of  their  dyes. 

The  people  in  the  scene  are  divided  into  two 
groups,  symbolizing,  it  would  seem,  the  last  judg 
ment.  On  the  ripht  are  the  Christian  folk,  who 
combine  the  poverty  of  St.  Francis,  the  filth  of  St. 
Anthony,  and  the  boils  of  St.  Simeon  Stylites,  while 
antedating  these  holy  men  by  some  centuries. 
Those  on  the  left  have  either  bathed  recently  or 
perfumed  themselves — which  comes  to  the  same 

39 


4O        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

thing.  The  men  are  urbane,  aloof;  the  women 
gracefully  familiar,  either  too  well  or  too  little 
dressed.  In  other  words  they  represent  respectively 
the  Roman  quarter  and  the  Latin  quarter  of  Jeru 
salem. 

The  time  is  early  in  the  reign  of  Nero. 
SIMON — (a  Christian  well-digger  who  resembles  an 
eagle  grown  old,  flabby  pouches  about  the  eyes, 
yellow  at  the  beak)     The'Lord  hath  given  and 
the  Lord  hath  taken  away. 

ALL  THE  CHRISTIANS — (with  more  than  necessary 
feeling)      Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord! 
Ju.NIUS  FABULLUS — (a  young  Roman  of  equestrian 
family  who  is  learning  to  govern  the  world  by 
observing  the  routine  at  the  procurator's  of 
fice)      What  is  this  Christianity  anyhow? 
CALVUS  VATINIUS  RUBO — (a  flaneur  at  the  upper 
edge  of  youth,  of  an  ancient  and  now  rich  pleb 
eian  family)      It's  a  kind  of  poverty  cult.     The 
Christians  affect  to  despise  the  world. 
FABULLUS — So  should  I  if  I  lived  here ! 
VATINIUS — Those  who  die  in  their  superstition  are 
to  live  again,  in  a  new  Jerusalem,  where  they 
will  sit  at  long  tables  and  be  served  pomegran 
ates,  white  bread  and  honeyed  wine  to  the  per 
petual  playing  of  harps. 
FABULLUS — It  sounds  like  the  summer  I  spent  in 

Corinth. 

VATINIUS — It's  only  those  who  have  had  nothing  in 
this  world  who  want  everything  in  the  next. 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene     41 

MIRIAM — (a  young  Christian  woman  with  wide 
grey  eyes  and  large  hips)  What  are  all  these 
hussies  doing  here? 

SAPPHIRA — (a  matron  with  large  overhanging  teeth 
who  has  espoused  Christianity  along  with  her 
husband)  They  are  old  friends  of  our  dear 
departed  sister. 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — These  painted, 
frizzled — women?  They  smell  like  the  public 
baths.  How  did  poor,  dear  Mary  Magdalene 
ever  come  to  know  these  queans? 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — She  was  one  of  them  my 
dear. 

jYouNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — One  of  these !  That 
holy  woman?  Why  Brother  Jehosophat  says 
that  just  before  she  died,  there  was  the  faintest 
flicker  of  an  aureole  about  her  head. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRO.N — Yes,  he'd  probably  say  her 
fingers  were  red  from  sewing,  when  they  were 
stained  with  henna.  And  did  you  never  notice 
how  often  she  bathed?  She  called  it  keeping 
her  body  ready  for  the  Lord.  But  it  was  sim 
ply  that  she  couldn't  shake  off  her  old  habits. 

JUDITH — (a  harlot)  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  die! 
To  be  hidden  in  the  deep  earth  and  never  see 
the  trees  with  fresh  green  on  them  in  the  spring 
or  the  blue  skies  over  them  in  the  summer. 

CHRYSIS — (another  harlot)  There's  a  charm  for 
every  kind  of  disease.  If  you  could  only  get 
them  all,  you  would  never  die.  I  have  charms 


42        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

for  twenty-seven  diseases.  My  sailor  friends 
bring  them  to  me.  I  have  a  charm  for  boils 
from  Aleppo  and  an  amulet  for  fever  from 
Messala. 

FIRST  HARLOT — Did  you  know  this  Magdalene  ? 

SECOND  HARLOT — My  first  lover  was  a  young 
Roman  she  had  tired  of.  He  had  a  scar  on 
his  left  shoulder  and  used  to  snore. 

SIMON — (half  chanting)  Now  this  body  of  cor 
ruption  has  taken  on  incorruptibility.  The 
carnal  body  has  perished,  but  the  soul  is  im 
perishable. 

CALLIOCHUS — (a  philosopher  of  Ephesus,  bald- 
headed,  his  red  beard  cut  in  imitation  of  the 
busts  of  Socrates)  The  soul  is  triangular. 
Its  three  sides  are  feeling,  perception  and  will. 
Had  the  soul  been  circular  it  would  have  en 
dured  forever. 

TERTULLIUS — (a  young  Roman  poet)  Did  you 
ever  know  this  Magdalene? 

THE  PHILOSOPHER — I  cannot  say.  No  one,  as  the 
vulgar  say,  can  escape  Venus,  the  mother  of  the 
Gods.  But  when  her  fever  is  upon  me  I  seek 
the  ugliest  slut  I  can  find,  so  that  afterwards 
I  may  have  as  long  repose  as  possible. 

THE  POET — You  never  knew  her.  Even  without 
love  she  had  been  beautiful.  She  was  my  first 
mistress.  Not  all  my  later  loves,  not  even 
death  itself,  can  take  her  image  from  my  eyes. 


^\^^^^^^5^i/'^^ 


^KiLS&iSS&Se^  r2r\\S*y*^r&  ^^%*W  ^^ 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene      45 

THE  PHILOSOPHER — You're  a  poet,  Tertullius,  and 
poetry  arises  from  some  drunkenness  of  the 
soul.  Poetry's  older  than  philosophy,  but  it's 
not  so  worthy. 

THE  POET — But  it  is  not  only  through  sober  reason 
ing  that  wisdom  comes.  The  poet  in  his  imag 
ination,  the  lover  in  his  ecstasy,  arrive  perhaps 
at  a  truth  beyond  wise  men. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER — So  do  women,  but  that  does 
not  make  them  the  equal  of  philosophers. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — I'd  like  to  pull  those  false 
frizzles  off.  To  come  here  among  respectable 
people  like  this ! 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — And  at  such  a  time ! 
They  might  show  a  little  decency! 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — I  hope  no  one  will  think  they 
are  friends  of  mine! 

FABULLUS — But  the  effect  of  this  Christianity  on  the 
populace — 

VATINIUS — Is  excellent!  I  have  a  slave  who  lays 
out  my  robes  and  sandals  in  the  morning.  He 
is  now  a  Christian.  I  find  he  shaves  me  much 
better  since  his  conversion.  He  seems  better 
satisfied  with  his  condition.  He  does,  I  believe, 
go  out  at  dawn  to  sing  hymns  or  something,  but 
as  I  never  rise  before  noon,  I  do  not  find  it 
inconvenient. 

FABULLUS — They  have  no  rites  then  which  inter 
fere  with  the  Roman  Laws? 


46        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

VATINIUS — They  have  only  a  sort  of  sacramental 
supper.  My  servant  has  every  Thursday  eve 
ning  out  in  order  to  attend  it. 

FIRST  HARLOT — I  knew  her  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  We  played  together  in  the  fields  and 
waded  in  the  noisy  brooks.  One  day  she  came 
to  me,  her  two  chubby  hands  behind  her  back, 
and  said,  "Which  will  you  have,  beauty  or 
gold?"  I  did  not  know  which  to  take  and  stood 
hesitating.  Then  she  laughed  and  gave  me 
with  one  hand  a  mite  of  copper,  and  with  the 
other  a  wisp  of  plucked  poppies.  "There," 
she  said,  "you  shall  have  both.  But  I  don't 
want  either.  I  want  to  be  loved."  And  she 
kissed  me  on  the  cheeks. 

SECOND  HARLOT — My  dear,  your  hair  is  getting  thin 
around  the  temples.  I  have  the  loveliest  oint 
ment  to  keep  the  hair  from  falling.  You  take 
a  live  bat  that's  been  found  sleeping  at  mid 
night  in  a  tomb,  and  crush  his  wing  with  a  mix 
ture  of  honey,  goose-grease  and  the  ashes  of  a 
dormouse.  Then  you  heat  it  in  a  brazier  and 
add  a  sprinkling  of  cinnamon,  saffron,  and  the 
dust  of  last  year's  roses.  Just  try  a  little  each 
night  before  going  to  bed. 

SIMON — They  that  are  after  the  flesh  do  mind  the 
things  of  the  flesh,  but  they  that  are  after  the 
spirit,  the  things  of  the  spirit.  They  that  are 
in  the  flesh  cannot  please  God,  but  I  am  in  the 
spirit. 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene      47 

THE  POET — In  the  flesh  beauty  crumbles,  fades  and 
is  lost,  but  in  the  mind  beauty  is  immortal. 
Magdalene  is  dead;  but  my  verses  survive. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — Sister  Martha  says  that  as 
soon  as  sister  Mary  was  dead  she  rummaged 
through  her  things.  What  do  you  think  she 
found  ? 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — Some  relic  of  our 
Lord,  no  doubt. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — Relic !  She  found  a  box  full 
of  fine  ointment,  and  a  package  of  spices  for 
mixing  with  wine. 

FABULLUS — My  suspicions  of  Christianity  are  pure 
ly  political.  Being  a  Roman  gentleman,  I  en 
tertain  an  open  mind  toward  all  the  ideas  of 
my  age.  But  as  for  the  Christians — they  refuse 
to  recognize  the  Roman  gods. 

VATINIUS — But  you  yourself — do  not  take  the  gods 
seriously,  I  hope? 

FABULLUS — I  am  a  Roman.  I  believe  in  the  Rom 
an  gods,  whether  they  exist  or  not.  It  is  their 
worship  which  has  brought  us  our  present  pros 
perity. 

VATINIUS — But  what  has  Rome  to  fear  from  a  lot 
of  hungry  slaves? 

FABULLUS — All  revolutions  begin  in  the  belly  and 
mount  to  the  brain. 

VATINIUS — When  that  happens,  Christianity  will 
have  become  a  fashionable  cult  at  Rome.  Once 
let  the  Pontifex  Maximus  turn  Christian,  or 


u 


48        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

better  still,  the  Emperor,  and  all  danger  from 
the  Christians  is  over.  They  will  beome  the 
chief  conservers  of  the  existing  order. 

SIMON — The  body  which  was  conceived  in  iniquity 
is  dead,  but  through  faith  the  just  live  again. 

FIRST  HARLOT — There's  nothing  you  can  do  for  the 
dead. 

SECOND  HARLOT — I  thought  I  was  going  to  die 
once,  but  I  prayed  to  Diana  and  was  well  in 
three  days.  I  have  a  little  shrine  to  her  in  my 
bed-chamber.  A  silversmith  from  Ephesus 
gave  it  to  me.  They  are  very  generous,  the 
Ephesians.  I  like  generous  men. 

FIRST  HARLOT — I  have  brought  these  flowers,  la^ 
burnum  and  yellow  lilies,  which  grow  by  the 
cool  well-side,  and  roses,  such  as  the  young 
women  beyond  Jordan  put  in  their  hair.  I  think 
she  would  have  liked  my  bringing  these  flowers. 

SECOND  HARLOT — I  like  flowers.  They  make  a 
room  smell  fresh  and  cool. 

FIRST  HARLOT — Do  you  think  they'd  mind  if  I 
went  in  and  put  them  at  the  foot  of  her  bed? 

SECOND  HARLOT — Who  cares  about  these  Chris 
tians?  They  never  bring  us  anything.  I  had 
an  old  Christian  come  up  and  take  his  son 
away  from  me  last  Friday.  Right  in  the  wine 
shop  too,  before  all  the  people. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — I  believe  one  of  those  hus 
sies  is  going  into  the  house. 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — She's  looking  toward 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene      49 

the  door.  A  woman  like  that  in  an  honest 
Christian's  home!  And  poor  sister  Magda 
lene  lying  there,  too ! 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — Don't  speak  that  way  about 
sister  Magdalene.  She's  gone  to  her  reward. 
At  least  I  hope  so,  though  there  have  been 
times  I've  doubted  very  much  if  the  Lord  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  likes  of  her. 

FABULLUS — You  are  dining  then  at  Sulpicia's? 

VATINIUS — No.    With  Publius  Rufus. 

FABULLUS — Until  tomorrow,  then.  Farewell. 
(He  passes  down  the  street  to  the  left.) 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — She's  starting  up  the 
steps. 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — She'll  get  there  over  my 
dead  body.  (She  runs  quickly  up  the  steps  and 
stands,  arms  akimbo,  in  front  of  the  door. 
Judith,  the  first  harlot,  stands  hesitating  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps.) 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — Take  those  filthy  weeds  away 
from  here !  You  can't  carry  your  abomina 
tions  into  this  house. 

SIMON — Soft  words,  sister. 

SECOND  HARLOT — (walks  deliberately  up  the  steps, 
and  stares  into  the  matron's  face.)  You  will 
call  us  names,  will  you?  Take  that!  (She, 
gives  her  a  shove  'which  sends  her  sprawling 
down  the  steps.)  And  that!  (Follows  after 
her  and  kicks  her.) 

CHRISTIAN    MATRON — (scrambling    to    her    feet) 


SO        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

You  painted  Babylonian !  I'll  show  you !  You 
with  that  dead  hair  frizzled  on  your  head! 
(She  grabs  the  curls  which  fall  over  the  harlot's 
ears  in  her  strong  hands,  and  shakes  her  head 
violently  back  and  forth  as  a  puppy  would  a 
rat,  while  the  courtesan  retorts  with  unaimed 
kicks  at  her  shins.) 

THE  POET — We  can't  let  this  go  on  1  It's  neither 
dignified  nor  sensible. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER — But  no  one  expects  a  woman  to 
be  either.  (Chrysis,  the  harlot,  manages  to  ex 
tricate  herself  from  the  matron's  grasp,  rushes 
at  her  headlong,  and  again  bowls  her  over, 
straddles  her  prostrate  body  and  attempts  to 
pinion  the  matron's  arms  with  one  hand.) 

SIMON — Though  they  beat  the  breath  out  of  your 
body  and  hack  you  with  two-edged  swords,  re 
gard  them  not,  for  so  did  they  to  the  prophets 
before  you. 

SECOND  HARLOT — You  will  scratch  my  eyes  out, 
will  you  ? 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — Get  off  me.  You're  mauling 
the  life  out  of  me.  (The  harlot  for  the  mo 
ment  has  one  arm  free,  which  she  uses  with 
good  effect.) 

SlMON — Though  they  saw  you  with  swords  and  com 
mit  all  manner  of  evil  unto  you,  rejoice  and  be 
exceeding  glad,  for  great  is  the  reward  in 
heaven.  (Vatinius  lifts  Chrysis  by  her 
shoulders,  holds  her  arms  as  in  a  vice.) 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene    51 

VATINIUS — You  can't  do  this  sort  of  thing.  You'll 
get  into  trouble  with  the  police.  You  know 
how  disastrous  that  would  be  for  you. 
(The  Christian  regains  her  feet  and  begins 
pummelling  the  harlot's  breast.) 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — I'll  show  you  how  to  treat  an 
honest  woman ! 

SIMON — (steps  between  the  two,  and  receives  a  few 
belated  blows  himself.)  Be  long  suffering,  sis 
ter,  patient  to  them  that  mistreat  you,  showing 
loving  kindness  to  them  that  hate  you. 

SECOND  HARLOT — (accustomed  though  she  is  to 
the  vulgar  indignities  of  the  crowd,  struggles 
with  rage  against  the  matron.®  Virago! 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — (Unable  to  dodge  between 
the  old  well-digger  and  the  harlot,  thrusts  her 
head  forward  impotently.)  The  slutl 

SIMON — The  other  cheek,  sister. 

VATINUS — (to  Chrysis,  the  harlot) — You've  made 
enough  of  a  scene  for  one  day.  You'd  better 
go  back  to  the  city.  (Judith,  unnoticed,  picks 
up  the  flowers  and  sits  on  the  steps,  weeping 
softly.) 

SECOND  HARLOT — (to  the  matron)  You  fat  lump! 
(Fatinius  leads  her  away  to  the  left.) 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — (toward  the  retreating 
pair)  You  painted  baggage !  You  lilac-nosed, 
loose-livered,  light-fingered  wench!  You 
daughter  of  a  mangy  dog!  You — you — you 


52        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

THE  POET — A  peroration  in  'yous'. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER — Could  you  lend  me  the  price 
of  drunkenness?  I  can  hear  the  stars  falling. 
(He  takes  several  coins  from  the  poet  and  fol 
lows  after  the  harlot.) 

SIMON — (goes  tip  the  steps  and  listens  at  the  door 
of  the  house.)  Not  a 'sound! 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — After  the  way  I've  been 
treated,  you  can't  expect  me  to  stay  here.  It 
all  comes  of  letting  such  women  leave  their 
own  quarter. 

YOUNG  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN — But  Sister  Mary — ? 

CHRISTIAN  MATRON — After  the  way  I've  been 
treated!  With  a  face  like  mine!  (She  moves 
her  hand  over  her  bleeding  cheeks.)  Funeral 
or  no  funeral — (She  and  Miriam  go  out  at  the 
right.) 

SlMON — (comes  down  the  steps  and  stands  holding 
his  paunch  with  a  deprecating  gesture.)  The 
burial  of  the  dead  is  delayed.  This  flesh — 
which  God  knows  I  annihilate  every  day — must 
have  its  due.  Let  us  go  and  break  our  mid 
day  bread.  (He  leaves  the  scene,  and  the  re 
maining  Christians  follow  sheepishly.  There 
are  now  left  but  Tertullius,  the  poet,  and 
Judith,  the  first  harlot.  There  is  a  pause. 
Then  he  goes  quietly  to  the  steps  and  lifts  her 
up.  She  is  still  weeping  softly.) 

JUDITH — You  do  not  know  how  I  loved  her. 

TERTULLIUS — I,     too,    loved    her.     We     two — 


Funeral  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene    53 

( The  door  opens  and  an  aged  elder  appears.) 
THE  ELDER — The  peace  of  the  Lord  be  upon  you. 
(He  descends  the  steps.     Borne  by  six  men, 
the  bier  of  Mary  Magdalene,  who  in  her  life 
had  been  beloved  by  the  poet,  the  harlot  and 
one  other,  appears  in  the  doorway.) 
JUDITH — There's  nothing  to  say  now,  except  fare 
well. 

TERTULLIUS — She  can  but  fare  as  the  dead  fare, 
which  is  not  well.  For  all  we  have  known 
and  loved  was  nourished  by  the  light,  and 
where  the  dead  are  is  no  light,  not  even  a  vain 
desire  for  splendour  stirring  in  the  startled  east 
nor  diminished  light  of  quiet  stars.  (The 
last  procession  of  the  Christian  saint  passes 
down  the  steps  and  from  the  scene.  At 
a  little  distance  there  follows,  out  of  all  that 
had  so  lately  been  there,  the  poet  and  the 
harlot,  leaning  on  the  poet's  arm.) 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  ROMANTIC  POET 

Paris:  circa   1840. 
A  friend  speaks: 

It   should  have   been   a   day  of  storm   and  cloud 

And  thunderous  winds,  of  autumn's  banners  hurled 
In  flaming  shreds  to  fashion  earth  a  shroud — 

Superb  despair  of  some  defeated  world! 
It  should  have  been  the  hour  when  evening's  hand 

Her  tragic  mantle  for  the  hills  has  brought 
And  turned  the  trees  to  presences  that  stand 

As  proud  and  sombre  as  a  poet's  thought! 

By  some  wild  cairn  they  should  have  buried  him, 
Where  earth,  upstarting,  clenches  stony  fists; 

Where  birds  that  swim  the  bleak  abysses  scream — 
Cry  out  in  lonely  pain  among  the  mists ! 

A  cousin  speaks: 

But  here  the  garish  August  sun  betrays 

A  vulgar  earth  of  drowziness  and  dust, 
Of  trees  like  giant  weeds  and  turbid  haze 

And  roads  that  tarnish  mourning  with  their  rust; 

54 


The  Funeral  of  a  Romantic  Poet    55 

A  teeming  earth,  contented  and  immune, 

Who  knows  no  sound  of  sympathy  to  make, 

But  slumbers  through  the  summer  afternoon, 
Too  gross  and  sluggard  ever  to  awake. 

He  lies  among  the  common  swarm  she  breeds, 
The  gaudy  wreaths  that  every  peasant  craves, 

The  black  and  purple  crosses,  decked  with  beads, 
That  make  men  foolish  even  in  their  graves. 

He  lies  with  neither  cypresses  nor  yews 

To  dignify  this  dismallest  of  things: 
That  one  short  fever  should  have  slain  his  muse 

And    made    him    fold    his    many-coloured 
wings.  .  .  . 

I  tell  you  that  these  poets  are  all  mad ! — 

And  worse  when  half  the  world  is  at  their  heel, 

When  men  forget  they  must  be  fed  and  clad 
To  follow  the  vain  grails  their  dreams  reveal. 

Through  all  the  anarchy  of  forty  years, 

I've  watched  them  at  the  wicket  of  my  bank — 

Deceitful,  stupid,  impotent  with  fears, 

Wise  only  when  they  think  to  hoard  a  franc; 

When  they  were  told  revolt  would  make  them  free 
By  rhapsodists  and  dreamers  like  our  friend, 

They  rose  and  drowned  the  city,  like  a  sea, 
And  left  us  only  coins  we  couldn't  spend; 


56        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Until  another  dreaming  lord  of  men 

Deceived  them  with  another  dream  awhile 

And  made  them  rob  their  treasuries  again 

To  strew  their  bones  from  Moscow  to  the  Nile. 

Then,  not  content  to  drive  their  fellows  mad, 
They  needs  must  bring  the  Heavens  to  their  side, 

Must  hear  the  waves  lament  when  they  are  sad, 
Must  make  the  Pyrenees  proclaim  their  pride; 

And  there  was  one  who  would  not  be  consoled 
But,    with    his    heart,    must    hear    the    boulders 
break — 

Though  words  could  never  leave  the  winds  less  cold 
Nor  sighing  stir  a  ripple  from  the  lake — 

The  friend  interrupts: 

"The    Lake"?     The    Lake    forgets?     While 

mortal  kind 

Keep  close  the  songs  where  Beauty's  hand  is  set — 
Ah,  night  with  words  of  sorrow  in  the  wind ! 
Ah,  rocks  that  speak! — the  Lake  shall  not  forget! 

For  here  a  lover  once  wept  lost  delight, 
For  here  a  lover  wept  that  love  was  gone, 

Who  filled  his  arms  with  splendour  in  the  night, 
Yet  left  him  empty-handed  with  the  dawn. 

Ah,  you  who,  shrinking  earthward,  dare  to  mock 
The  winds  that  sweep  your  counting-house  away, 


The  Funeral  of  a  Romantic  Poet    57 

Who  labour  to  exclude  with  cunning  lock 
The  gods  whose  shadows  make  your  door 
step  grey! 

Think  you  the  years  that  rob  you  while  they  run 
Shall  let  your  children's  children,  gazing  back, 

Behold  the  tawdry  graves,  the  blowzy  sun, 
The  banker  cousin  in  his  proper  black? 

I  know  what  they  must  see ! — an  empty  room, 
Close-smelling,  exquisite  and  chilling  cold, 

Where  taper  flames  are  trebled  through  the  gloom 
By  mirrors  wreathed  with  little  gods  of  gold; 

A  handsome  portrait,  cynically  bland; 

A  dainty  silken  fan;  a  broidered  glove; 
Cards  fallen  loosely  from  a  listless  hand; 

Fine  volumes  that  speak  wittily  of  love. 

Then  slowly  the  low  windows  cloud  with  light ; 

The  candles  show   for  paste;  there   stirs  about 
A  little  wind  from  gardens  wet  with  night 

That  sets  them  fluttering  and  puffs  them  out; 

And  white-foot  morning  breaks  her  cobwebs  grey 
To  walk  the  close-walled  alley-ways  alone, 

To  thrill  with  light,  in  gardens  fresh  from  May, 
The  very  frozen  goddesses  of  stone ; 

She  trolls  a  song  that  girls  unwedded  sing 
Who  wash  their  linen,  singing,  in  Lorraine; 


58        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

And  men  look  out  of  window,  wondering, 
And  suddenly  behold  the  hills  again ! — 

The  hills  where  wildness  lifts  the  heart  like  wine; 

The  lake  thick-misted  still  with  lovers'  tears ; 
Dim  streams  where  men  may  drink  the  peace  divine 

That  broods  in  coolness  by  forgotten  weirs. 

Like  hearts  that  scorn  the  littleness  of  life, 
Companions  to  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 

Their  hearts,. pierced  through  with  beauty  like 

a  knife, 
Cry  out  in  tears  and  anger  to  go  free ! 

A  storm  breaks,  monstrous,  blackening  the  air, 
In  fury  against  Life,  the  base,  the  blind, 

Who  brings  the  noblest  passion  to  despair, 

Who  slays  the  bravest  swordsman  from  behind! 

I  tell  you  that  your  summer  makes  too  bold 
To  mock  men's  eyes  with   earth's   eternal 
norm — 

These  only  shall  our  children's  eyes  behold: 

The  mountains  and  the  morning  and  the  storm! 


The  Death  of  a  Dandy 

Le  Dandy  doit  aspirer  a  etre  sublime, 
sans  interruption.     II  doit  vivre  et 
dormir  (Levant  un   miroir. 

— Charles  Baudelaire 

The  exquisite  banality  of  rose  and  ivory: 

Shadows  of  ivory  carved  into  panels,  stained 

And  decayed  in  the  moulding;  rose-colour  looped 

Casting  a  shadow  of  mauve;  blown  cherubs 

Bulging  in  silver, 

Lift  six  tapers  to  the  lighted  mirror. 

A  dusk,  deep  as  the  under  side  of  a  rose, 
Is  curtained  under  the  old  bed-dome. 
Contracting  the  coverlet,  a  shape  lies 
Which  may  or  may  not  be  a  man. 

What  thoughts  should  an  old  man  have 

In  the  London  autumn 

Between  dusk  and  darkness? 

Behind  the  shrunken  eyelids,  what  apparitions? 

What  pebbles  rattle  in  a  dry  stream? 

A  boy  with  a  pale,  lovely,  dissolute  face 
Sprawled  on  the  green  baize,  among  the  cards, 

59 


60         The  Undertaker's  Garland 

A  Spanish  pistol  dropped  from  one  hand — 

Seen  from  the  glazed  squares  of  the  club,  a  street 

Cobbled  with  faces,  bundles  of  rags  and  lice, 

A  yellow  dwarf  rising  with  protruding  face — 

Gilded  Indian  gamecocks  clawing  blood 

Amid  the  clapping  of  pale  hairless  hands — 

Lady   Barfinger,    masked   in   satin,    disclosing  her 

gums, 

Laboured  graces  of  a  cracked  coquette — 
A  Jew  that  came  on  sliding  haunches, 
,'Crouched,  and  with  distended  palms 
Whined  for  his  pledges — Alvanley, 
Embroidered  in  silver  foil,  poised  at  the  Court, 
The  ball  a  mirror  of  silvery  Alvanleys. 

Phantoms  under  a  cloudy  ceiling,  uneasy  images, 

Sentences  that  never  come  to  a  period. 

Thoughts  of  an  old  dandy  shrunk  to  a  nightgown. 

The  chamfered  fall  of  silken  rose — 

Muffling  London  and  the  autumn  rain — 

Lifts  and  recurves, 

A  beautiful  young  man, 

Naked,  but  for  a  superb  white  tiewig, 

Moves  in  with  slow  pacings  of  a  cardinal 

Dreaming  on  his  cane. 

The  firelight  blushes  on  the  suave 
Thighs  of  the  young  man,  as  he  glides 
From  his  calm  with  an  inessential  gesture 


The  Death  of  a  Dandy          61 

To  brush  his  tiewig.     Palm  upon  knuckles, 

(Fingers  over  the  cane  head,  he  regards 

Amusedly  his  own  face  in  the  crystal. 

"Without  my  powdered  curled  peruke 

I  were  but  a  man;  so,  I  am  a  dandy. 

For  what  was  there  to  do,  being  no  god 

Burnished  and  strong,  amorous  of  immortals, 

But  to  escape  this  disappointing  body 

Punily  erect,  patched  with  scant  hair, 

Rank  in  its  smell  too, 

By  hiding  it  in  silk  and  civet — adding  to  silver  hair, 

Pomp  of  vermilion  heels? 

What  else,  indeed,  unless  to  drown 

All  naked,  to  drown  all  sense  in  wine. 

"They  thought  my  wit  was  all  in  waistcoats, 

My  epigrams  pointed  but  with  dainty  tassels, 

When  every  ribbon  that  my  fingers  tied 

Protested  with  a  fragile  indolent  disdain 

A  world  exquisitely  old  and  dull  and  vain. 

So  I  gave  them  my  jest — 

Walking  stark  naked  to  the  gaming  room 

Where  the  preened  dandies  leaned  across  their  cards 

Their  pale  long  fingers  spread  among  the  cards. 

They  laughed :  I  did  not  laugh :  so  old 
So  pitiful,  so  brutal  and  so  dark 
The  buffoonery.     But  the  body's  the  jest  of  An 
other — 
I  make  my  obeisance. 


62        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Young  Coatsworth  has  become 

A  naked  glimmer  on  the  lighted  glass, 

Fainter  than  the  shimmer  among  rainy  bees. 

An  old  man  lies  propped  on  a  bed. 
Counting  the  candles  of  the  empty  glass — 
An  old  man  who  has  seen 
His  own  youth  walking  in  the  room. 

The  window  silk  puffs  with  a  winter  gust, 

And  Coatsworth,  aetatis  suae  XXV, 

Flapped  in  gold  braid  crinkled  in  air-blue, 

With  inscrutable  precision 

Bows  in  a  lady, 

Who  repeats  the  scene  with  graces  of  a  marionette. 

"Madam,"  he  says,  addressing  her  panniers, 

"Your  bodice  is  miraculously  a  double  moonrise, 

Your  throat  the  traditional  swan's  white — 

But  fuller.     Your  lips  an  exciting  cochineal. 

But  in  truth,  love  is  at  best 

A  fashionable  intrigue,  an  accompliced  secret, 

Unendurable  without  grated  orris  root. 

Love  remains  to  the  proud  mind 

A  ladder  loosened  from  the  brazen  tower, 

A  furtive  flight  from  the  sentineled  domain 

Where  self  is  utterly  contained  in  self. 

Though  you  ordered  the  death  of  a  thousand  roses, 

I've  caught  the  breath  of  a  garden,  where 

No  man  has  ever  been,  and  the  ripe  fruit 


The  Death  of  a  Dandy          63 

Drops  through  the  tarnished  air 
Unheeded,  and  yew  trees  are  made  peacocks. 
I  thank  you  for  your  horrible  favours. 
Adieu—" 

The  lady  unravels  to  a  ragged  smoke : 
Coatsworth  darkens  with  blood  like  a  satyr, 
Blushes  in  a  burnish  on  the  mirror, 
Burns  and  is  gone. 

The  dry  skull  stretches  regretful  claws 

And  the  points  of  the  tapers  twist  and  bend — 

Sallow  fingers  of  Jewish  usurers. 

A  rapier  flicks  through  the  curtains 
Like  a  needle  of  sunlight  splintered  on  the  sea. 
Coatsworth  presses  before  him, 
Back  to  the  fireplace,  a  panting  stripling. 
A  jet  of  wet  red  spurts  from  the  shirt  front; 
The  youth  sinks  and  dribbles  in  blood  through  the 
carpet. 

"The  end  of  such  upstart  heralds 

As  would  bar  my  shield  to  the  sinister." 

The  reflected  visage  is  rigid, 

Puckered  thinly  with  wrinkles. 

"What  if  I  got  my  finger's  trick, 

Whether  with  rapiers  or  a  puffing  neck-cloth, 

From  a  confectioner  of  Bath 

Whose  fastidious  years  were  spent 


64        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Tracing  on  cakes  sweet  labyrinths  of  ice, 
Squeezing  pink  fondant  into  petalled  buds? 
What  that,  overnight,  through  an  open  window, 
He  got  me  because  a  crooked  pear  tree 
Climbed  to  the  window  ledge  ? 
No  man's  to  call  me  bastard. 
And  what's  a  murder  more  or  less 
Amid  the  inane  fecundity  of  blood  and  sweat. 
A  barmaid  and  a  groom  repair  the  loss." 

The  dead  youth  has  subsided  in  blood 
Leaving  the  floor  unsoiled. 

Coatsworth  has  leapt  through  the  silvered  glass 
Leaving  its  flames  unspoiled. 

His  pallor  stained  by  the  rose-dimmed  dusk, 
An  old  man  lies  on  a  curtained  bed, 
Whimpering  like  a  beggar  in  a  wet  loft 
When  the  wind's  found  the  cracks  and  the  straw 
is  cold. 

Coatsworth,  now  old,  steps  from  the  window  folds 

With  a  gesture  consciously  tragic; 

Stands  for  a  moment 

Half  Don  Juan,  half  Childe  Harold; 

Then  stalks,  a  magpie  motley 

Black,  buff  and  silver,  up  to  the  mirror. 

He  regards  the  vain,  brave  fall 

Of  the  surtout,  the  triple  tied  neck-cloth, 

The  bronze  hair  brushed  as  in  busts  of  Nero — 


The  Death  of  a  Dandy          65 

Then  with  a  posture  almost  Byronic 
Confides  in  silence. 

"Amid  the  bumpers,  the  scaffoldings,  the  ilex  cones, 

I  have  ever  worn  the  scorn  of  death 

With  the  careless  grace  of  a  boutonniere. 

But  let  me  be  buried  with  a  fiery  choir; 

A  scarlet  and  lace  processional  of  boys, 

And  priests  too  old  to  lift  their  stiffened  folds 

Too  wise  to  hold  their  clouded  incense  as  a  prayer. 

Tie  up  my  chin  lest  I  should  smile. 

And  press  into  my  hand  my  laurel  cane 

Where  Daphne  with  blown  crinkled  hair 

Feels  the  hard  wood  invade  her  silver  thighs; 

Leave  me  my  snuff  box  for  its  musty  yawn 

And  for  its  intricate  cool  ivory 

Showing  an  April  faun  at  his  desires; 

Probate  my  will,  offer  my  house  for  rent. 

"I  had  thought  to  find  a  languor,  to  attain 

A  gallant  erudition  in  the  snuff  box  and  the  cane ; 

To  restore  a  tarnished  splendour 

Ceremonious  as  a  stole, 

Gorgeous  like  a  vestment — yet  urbane; 

Between  the  opening  and  the  closing  of  the  doors 

To  have  stood  between  the  sconces,  ripe  in  silk, 

Ancestral  laces  falling  to  the  sword; 

Reflected  in  the  parquetry,  to  dream 

Of  Giorgione  in  a  tricorn,  and  high  wigs 

Powdered  with  palest  silver,  piled  like' clouds; 


66        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Of  odorous  mummied  roses,  grown  dusty  with  a 

queen 
Tender  and  slight  and  proud. 

"But  I  have  stood  so  long 
Before  so  many  mirrors,  I'm  afraid, 
Afraid  at  last  that  I  may  be 

A  shadow  of  masks  and  rapiers  between  the  giran 
doles 
A  satin  phantom,  gone  when  the  wax  is  down." 

He  becomes  a  toothless  grimace 

Between  the  moveless  cherubs,  silver  blown. 

Under  the  lustered  bed-dome,  in  the  curtained  dusk, 
A  throat  moans — the  sudden  and  lonely 
Cry  of  one  ridden  by  a  nightmare, 
Who  wakes  and  finds  it  is  no  dream. 

Old  Coatsworth  unravels  from  the  bed  clothes — 

As  ghost  unwinding  its  buried  linen, 

And  stands,  toes  clutched  and  indrawn, 

Ridiculously  muffled  in  linen  ruffles; 

Totters  slowly  to  the  glass 

To  find  therein,  grinning  wide  with  terror, 

The  toothless  mist  of  the  last  apparition. 

Shrieking,  he  plucks  a  candle  from  its  socket 

And  drives  the  double  flame  into  the  darkness. 

Another,  another,  another, 

Four  tapers  extinguish  their  windy  stains 


The  Death  of  a  Dandy         67 

In  a  smear  of  wax  on  the  mirror. 

Another  flame  drops  from  a  bony  claw. 

Like  the  drums  of  a  defeat,  a  heart  sounds. 

And  he  peers  at  the  dwindling  face  in  the  mirror — 

The  face  of  a  dandy  brought  to  a  shroud. 

Clutching  the  last  tremulous  candle 

The  old  dandy  sways, 

Clings  to  the  air, 

And  sinks  in  a  slow  movement  of  exhausted  mirth. 

The  mirror  is  heavy  with  shadows 
And  a  white  candle  spreads  a  film  on  the  hearth 
stone. 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert 

Edgar's  grandfather  had  studied  Latin  and  Greek 

And  his  father  had  studied  Latin, 

But  Edgar  studied  only  Spanish, 

For  commercial  purposes — 

Because  he  had  been  told  that  it  was  very  valuable 

In  connection  with  South  America. 

Edgar  did  exceedingly  well  at  college : 
He  won  a  $BK 

And  was  active  in  Y.  M.  C.  A.  work. 
One  day,  however,  a  devil  tempted  him. 
It  was  as  the  time  of  a  big  religious  revival: 
Mr.  Guthrie,  the  well-known  evangelist, 
Had  just  spent  a  week  at  the  college 
And  set  all  the  more  callow  of  the  students 
To  praying  and  repenting  their  sins; 
Religion  spread  like  a  rash 
Till  the  classes  had  to  be  suspended. 
There  had  been  nothing  like  it  for  an  orgy 
Since  the  club  election  parties. 
At  the  final  meeting  of  the  week, 
Mr.  Guthrie  made  a  gripping  speech: 
He  told  the  young  men,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that 
there  was  nothing  like  confession 
68 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    69 

To  purge  away  the  dross  of  the  soul  and  let  Jesus 

into  the  heart 

And  that  they  would  all  feel  better  men  for  it, 
If  they  would  get  up  right  there  and  confess. 
He  said  that  the  more  people  heard  you  confess, 
The  more  effective  your  confession  was. 

So  one  freshman  confessed  to  playing  craps 

And  another  to  having  drunk  a  cocktail, 

And  then  a  child-like  football-playe»r, 

With  a  manly  but  unsteady  voice, 

Announced  that  he  had  spent  the  night  with  a  girl 

On  the  boat  coming  down  from  Albany, 

When  he  was  on  his  way  home  from  Northfield, 

From  the  big  religious  conference. 

There  was  something  in  the  reduction 

Of  this  honest  and  enormous  fellow 

To  the  level  of  a  frightened  child 

That  affected  Edgar  unpleasantly, 

Though  he  tried  to  struggle  against  it; 

And  then  suddenly  the  devil  appeared  to  him 

In  the  form  of  a  well  dressed  s.fudent 

Whom  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"This  makes  me  sick!"  said  the-  devil. 

"If  the  godhoppers  had  their  way, 

They'd  have  us  all  like  that." 

And  he  turned  .and  went  away, 

Leaving  Edgar  strangely  uneasy. 

He  had  at  first  intended  to  confess 

That  he  had  once  neglected  his  Physics* 


70        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

To  go  to  see  Douglas  Fairbanks,  just  before  an  ex 
amination; 

But  he  didn't  get  around  to  it,  stomehow. 

He  convinced  hims-elf,  however, 

When  the  meeting  was  over, 

That,  disgusting  as  these  things  might  seem, 

They  were  really  of  a  surgical  cleanness, 

Because  a  fine  clean  man  like  Mr.  Guthric, 

With  a  blue  suit  and  gold  watch-chain  and  every 
thing, 

Dignified  them  by  his  straight-forward  manliness 

And  his  stern  anxiety  for  saving 

The  meanest  of  human  souls. 

But,  in  spite  of  his  interest  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
He  did  not  go  to  China  for  mission  work, 
After  his  graduation  from  college; 
Nor  did  he  even  go  to  South  America, 
In  spite  of  having  studied  Spanish. 
He  obtained  a  position  in  a  candy  factory 
At  Newark,  New  Jersey — 

A  position  in  what  was  known  as  the  Welfare  De 
partment. 

As  he  first  approached  Newark  on  the  train, 
He  was  thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  his  work; 
When  he  saw  the  huge  dark-bulking  factories, 
That  lay  like  great  ships  in  the  marsh 
And  seemed  to  dominate  the  world 
With  their  implacable  austerity, 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    71 

He  exulted  at  the  thought  of  Industry, 

So  swollen  and  rapid  a  tide, 

Sweeping  the  country  along  to  Prosperity 

On  its  mighty  flood  of  Production; 

And  he  felt  some  of  the  outwardly  grim,  but  in 
wardly  gay  self-importance 

Of  the  young  Second  Lieutenant  who  has  just  re 
ceived  his  commission, 

As  he  reflected  that  he  now  belonged 

To  the  class  who  were  chosen  to  direct  it — 

To  speed  up  its  processes  by  efficiency, 

To  marshal  and  control  its  workers. 

Now,  at  the  time  when  Edgar  arrived  to  take  up 

welfare  work 

In  the  Hutchins  &  Blotto  Hygienic  Candy  Kitchens, 
It  happened  that  the  whole  works 
Was  undergoing  reorganization, 
On  account  of  the  Schlegemann-Applegate  Electric 

Filler  and  Slicer, 

Which  had  just  been  installed  there. 
Hitherto,  the  work  of  the  Candy  Kitchens 
Had  been  largely  done  by  hand: 
One  girl,  for  example, 
Would  cut  off  lengths  of  taffy, 
While  another  dipped  them  in  chocolate, 
Thus  producing  caramels; 

But,  under  the  new  system,  practically  everything 
Was  accomplished  by  machinery : 


72        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

In  the  making  of  chocolate  bars,  for  instance, 

A  large  vat  would  be  filled  with  paraffin, 

Into  which  some  chocolate  and  sugar 

Would  be  automatically  fed, 

As  well  as  a  pint  of  formaldehyde 

And  a  bushel  of  almond  shells ; 

Then,  when  the  ingredients  in  the  vat 

Had  been  boiled  for  a  certain  length  of  time, 

It  would  be  automatically  tipped  up 

And  the  contents  poured  into  little  troughs, 

Where  they  were  hardened  by  a  special  cold-air 
process 

And  finally  run  through  a  guillotine, 

Which  chopped  them  into  equal  lengths  and  stamped 
them  in  enormous  letters 

With  the  legend  HUTCHINS  &  BLOTTO. 

This  process  was  a  great  improvement 

On  any  ever  used  before ; 

It  more  than  quadrupled  production. 

All  the  operatives  had  to  do  was  to  watch  the  ma 
chine  : 

One  girl  would  devote  herself  exclusively 

To  feeding  the  hoppers  of  the  vat; 

She  was  no  longer  obliged  to  trouble 

About  getting  the  proportions  right: 

The  machine  did  all  that  for  her; 

Another  simply  watched  the  guillotine 

To  see  that  it  was  working  accurately; 

While  a  third  checked  up  the  finished  products 

And  sorted  out  defective  ones. 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    73 

Edgar  entered  heart  and  soul,  at  once, 

Into  the  spirit  of  this  invention 

And  he  assisted  the  efficiency  expert 

In  organizing  the  works 

So  that  half  as  many  operatives  as  before 

Could  produce  four  times  as  much  candy. 

This  was  done  by  timing  the  fastest  worker 

And  making  all  the  rest  live  up  to  him; 

Or,  in  some  departments  of  the  factory, 

By  the  institution  of  piece-work, 

Which,  the  welfare  workers  pointed  out, 

Enabled  the  employees  to  earn  more : 

Because,  by  this  system,  each  one  was  paid  for  the 

individual  amount  of  candy 
He  was  able  to  make  in  a  day 
And  was  thus,  as  can  readily  be  seen, 
Kept  enthusiastically  at  it 
Pushing  the  work  along. 

There  were  many  other  measures  taken,  also, 
For  the  welfare  of  the  employees. 
There  was  a  special  trained  nurse,  for  example, 
Who  was  sent  to  the  homes  of  the  workers 
Who  had  failed  to  turn  up  for  work 
And  alleged  that  they  were  sick; 
She  would  visit  such  people  at  once 
And,  if  they  were  really  sick, 
She  would  go  away  and  leave  them  in  peace; 
And,  if  anybody  were  dying, 
With  an  admirable  delicacy, 
She  would  take  pains  not  to  annoy  him; 


74        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

But  if  anybody  said  he  was  sick 
And  then  turned  out  not  to  be  sick, 
She  took  such  offence  at  his  deceit 
And  his  lack  of  loyalty  to  his  employer 
That  she  always  went  straight  away 
And  informed  the  company. 

But  the  welfare  worker's  chief  task 

Was  to  promote  an  esprit  de  corps: 

He  published  a  well-printed  little  paper 

Devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  workers, 

Which  came  out  very  strongly  from  the  first 

For  loyalty  to  American  institutions — 

And,  in  case  some  of  the  ignorant  foreigners 

Might  not  understand  these  institutions, 

It  took  pains  to  explain  quite  simply 

That  the  chief  of  them  was  the  time-clock; 

And  it  made  it  quite  clear  that  striking 

Was  a  treasonable  act. 

There  were  also  jolly  picnics 

In  the  bracing  New  Jersey  marshes; 

They  were  run  off  according  to  schedule 

By  the  Welfare  Department, 

Who  furnished  the  picnickers  with  little  lists 

Of  the  things  they  must  not  do — 

Such  as  wandering  too  far  away 

Or  leaving  egg-shells  on  the  grass. 

And  young  Edgar,  as  I  have  said, 
Entered  heartily  into  the  work: 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    75 

Just  as  at  college  he  had  taken  up  the  cause 

Of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 

And  had  preached  the  battle  against  vice  and  the 

life  of  service  for  Christ, 
So  now  he  put  an  earnest  enthusiasm 
Into  the  industrial  religion 
And  devoted  all  his  spiritual  force 
To  the  preaching,  by  precept  and  example, 
Of  the  following  admirable  commandments : 
Be  sober,  in  order  that  your  employer  may  have  an 

efficient  servant; 
Be  thrifty,  in  order  that  your  employer  may  not 

have  to  pay  you  higher  wages; 
Be  honest,  in  order  that  your  employer  may  not  lose 

money  by  you ; 
Be  industrious,  in  order  that  your  employer  may 

become  as  rich  as  possible; 
And,  finally,  be  religious — 
Be  optimistic  and  pious, 
So  that,  well  satisfied  with  this  life  and  hoping  for 

a  bonus  in  Heaven, 

You  may  never  be  tempted  to  complain 
Or  to  question  economic  arrangements. 

But  one  day  another  devil 

Appeared  to  Edgar, 

Wearing  respectable  ready-made  clothes 

And  a  clean  white  collar, 

So  that  Edgar  should  not  suspect  him. 

"Would  you  be  interested,"  inquired  the  devil, 


76        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"In  beholding  the  naked  human  soul, 

In  examining  with  your  own  eyes  its  every  hidden 

mystery, 
In  reading  its  every  thought  as  easily  as  you  can 

read  an  electric  sign?" 
(He  spoke  like  an  advertisement, 
Because  he  was  a  crafty  devil 
And  knew  that  this  would  be  the  surest  way 
Of  winning  Edgar's  respect.) 
But  Edgar  only  took  him  for  a  book-agent 
And  tried  to  shut  him  off; 
So  the  devil  attacked  him  again  with  an  even  subtler 

cunning : 

"You  must  not  suppose  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  even  a  crank,"  he  continued. 
"I  can  actually  do  what  I  say  I  can, 
By  scientific  methods. 
It  is  all  Science  !" 

And  when  Edgar  heard  that  it  was  all  Science, 
He  went  with  the  devil  at  once. 

"Let  us  begin  with  a  simple  type  of  soul,"  said  the 

devil, 

"A  type  you  can  easily  understand. 
Let  us  take  one  of  the  young  girls 
Who  works  in  the  Candy  Kitchens  here" ; 
And  he  led  Edgar  casually  to  the  operative 
Who  sorted  out  the  defective  chocolate  bars. 
"Put  this  little  lens  into  your  eye 
And  then  watch  her  back,"  he  said. 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    77 

So  Edgar  did  as  he  was  told 

And  fixed  his  eye  on  the  girl's  back 

And  he  found  that,  instead  of  a  gingham  dress, 

He  was  gazing  at  a  sort  of  grey  pool — 

Something  between  a  tank  at  the  aquarium 

And  a  picture  by  Mr.  Arthur  Davies, 

But  it  was  greyer  and  more  indeterminate 

Than  even  Mr.  Davies  usually  is — 

Though  there  were  some  curious  dark  shapes, 

Not  unlike  fish  and  sea-weed, 

Or  drifting  disembodied  spirits. 

"Here,  you  see,"  began  the  devil, 

In  the  respectable  voice  of  a  lecturer: 

"Here,  you  see,  we  have  the  woman's  soul: 

There  is  very  little  colour  in  it: 

It  is  fed  for  ten  hours  a  day 

By  nothing  but  the  room  in  which  we  find  ourselves 

And  the  employment  of  picking  out  chocolate  bars 

That  are  longer  than  the  rest, 

Outside  of  that,  it  is  fed 

By  the  Newark  houses  and  streets." 

"But  surely,"  Edgar  exclaimed, 

"This  is  not  the  woman's  whole  soul ! 

Does  she  never  have  any -amusements? 

Has  she  never  known  a  pure  and  selfless  Love? 

And  has  she  no  Religion?" 

"That  thing  like  a  muddy  purple  pin-wheel," 

The  devil  explained  politely, 

"Is  her  passion  for  the  movies.  .,».. 

But  her  chief  amusement  is  to  be  seen 


78        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

In  that  dark  growth  at  the  bottom, 
Which  will  presently  swell  and  burst 
And  change  all  the  grey  to  black; 
It  is  her  festering  hatred  and  anger 
Against  whatever  it  is 
That  keeps  her  inside  this  room 
For  ten  hours  a  day. 
After  so  many  days  of  grey, 
Even  black  is  a  desirable  colour; 
After  so  many  chocolate  bars, 
A  strike  amounts  to  a  lark. 
And  as  for  Love,  you  will  find  it 
In  those  foul  and  murky  patches 
Which  here  thicken  the  grey; 
You  will  find  its  freest  expression 
In  the  aphorisms,  poems  and  sketches 
Which  appear  in  such  profusion 
On  the  walls  of  the  women's  lavatory. 
But  as  for  Religion/'  he  concluded, 
uYou  will  look  for  it  in  vain." 

"Scoundrel !"  cried  Edgar.     "Liar ! 

You  are  defaming  American  womanhood! 

Tar  and  feathering  is  too  easy 

For  a  traitor  who  talks  like  you ! 

You  would  make  me  believe  that  our  honest  girls, 

As  pure  as  any  women  in  the  world, 

Are  poisoned  with  filthy  desires  and  contaminated 

thoughts ! — 
And  with  our  up-to-date  Welfare  Department 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    79 

Doing  everything  in  its  power 

To  shield  the  good  girls  from  corruption 

And  save  the  bad  ones  from  themselves! 

Furthermore,  you  are  a  Bolshevik, 

An  alien  agitator! — 

I  can  tell  from  your  dark  complexion. 

You  are  preaching  organization  and  treason; 

You  are  probably  a  walking  delegate ! 

You  want  to  take  the  free  and  contented  employees 

And  set  them  against  their  masters ! 

I  shall  have  you  deported  to  Russia 

Or  knocked  on  the  head  in  the  street!" 

But  the  devil  only  disappeared, 

With  a  harsh  and  metallic  laugh, 

In  a  puff  of  chlorine  gas. 

Edgar  thought  the  whole  incident  a  delusion 

Brought  on  by  overwork; 

But  the  memory  of  it  troubled  him. 

He  felt  that  a  kind  of  spell 

Had  been  laid  upon  his  eyes, 

So  that  nothing  seemed  natural  to  him. 

He  grew  to  detest  his  office 

And  the  very  sight  of  the  factories 

And  he  avoided  the  eye  of  the  employees 

When  he  met  them  around  the  place. 

One  day  as  he  came  down  to  Newark 

A  strange  depression  possessed  him; 

The  familiar  landscape  of  the  marshes, 

Which  had  formerly  thrilled  him  so  splendidly 


8o        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

With  its  monuments  to  heroic  enterprise 

And  unshakable  prosperity, 

Filled  him  now  with  an  aching  doubt 

And  a  terrible  foreboding. 

He  saw  a  country  for  ever  tarnished  with  a  dingy 
haze  of  dampness  and  smoke; 

The  swamp-grass  was  bleached  by  the  autumn  to  an 
almost  colourless  yellow,  with  patches  still 
feebly  verdant  and  with  stagnant  pools  cor 
rupted  to  a  vivider  green; 

And  the  whole  of  the  vast  dead  meadow  was  strung 
with  telephone  wires,  scarred  across  by  muddy 
and  foundering  roads; 

The  one  touch  of  colour  and  life  was  the  series  of 
huge  board  signs  which  advertised  hotels  and 
theatres;  underclothes,  bacon  and  ketchup; 
phonographs,  fountain-pens,  cigarettes-  and 
safety-razors;  typewriters,  letter-openers,  um 
brellas  and  licorice  drops;  and,  not  least,  the 
Toothsome  Chocolate  Bars  of  Hutchins  & 
Blotto,  proclaimed  with  the  face  of  an  enor 
mous  girl,  smiling  like  a  shark. 

Then  came  the  world  of  the  factories,  like  prodigi 
ous  and  sinister  war-ships; 

The  excoriation  of  the  rail-road  tracks,  bristling 
with  cranes; 

Low  bare  brick  plants  encased  in  tight  bare  walls 
of  brick, 

Above  a  straight  black  iron  river  where  the  ripples 
looked  like  flaws; 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    81 

Yards  cluttered  with  metallic  refuse :  exact  piles  of 
rusty  pipe ;  congeries  of  iron  octopus-trunks  and 
nondescript  lopped-off  tentacles. 

And  there  were  human  habitations,  like  a  flimsier 
sort  of  debris: 

Feeble-looking  houses,  unpainted  and  grey,  which, 
but  for  ragged  lines  of  clothes,  that  flung  their 
poor  reds  and  whites  to  dry  in  the  tainted  air, 
would  have  seemed  the  sea-faded  wrecks  of  a 
faded  monotonous  sea; 

And  at  last  a  broad  body  of  water,  his  familiar 
Newark  Bay,  perfectly  black  and  still,  shiny 
and  corrupt  with  oil, 

IWhere  the  hulk  of  a  horrible  old  steam-boat,  as 
black  as  the  water  itself,  had  been  slowly  rot 
ting  and  sinking  through  the  stagnancy  of  years 
and  now  showed  only  its  warped  upper  deck 
and  its  rickety  blackened  wheel. 

There  were  more  factories  here,  jammed  stiflingly 
together : 

Small  factories  and  machine-shops  pressed  close  on 
either  side,  seemed  to  shut  him  in  like  a  prison, 
crowd  blankly  against  his  view,  seemed  to 
sterilize  his  soul  with  their  barrenness  and  op 
press  it  with  their  bulk: 

Pattern-makers  and  electroplaters,  manufacturers  of 
castings  and  blow-pipes,  of  paints  and  mat 
tresses  and  chemicals. 

There  was  business  going  on  everywhere;  he  knew 
how  much  work  was  being  done;  he  recognized 


82        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

the  prosperity  represented  by  the  cheap  shops 
and  solid  buildings; 

But  in  the  dirtiness  of  the  streets,  the  dull  colours  of 
the  city,  the  harshness  of  human  works  indif 
ferent  to  cleanness  and  brightness,  the  over 
whelming  impression  of  life  grown  heavy  and 
sordid  and  empty  behind  grudging  dusty  win 
dows,  in  thousands  of  brick-walled  rooms, 

He  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  Death 

Was  blackening  and  rotting  the  city, 

As  it  had  done  to  that  wretched  old  steam-boat, 
which  no  one  had  thought  to  save. 

At  the  dingy  brick  Newark  station, 

He  descended  in  painful  reflection 

And  began  to  walk  to  his  office 

Through  hard,  blank-sided  streets; 

But  devils  pressed  thick  about  him, 

Waylaying  him  as  he  walked. 

One  came  in  the  guise  of  the  girl 

Of  whose  soul  he  had  seen  an  X-ray; 

But  now  she  froze  his  blood 

With  green  phosphorescent  eyes. 

"Ah,  hypocrite  and  fool!"  she  cried. 

"Will  you  never  find  yourself  out? 

Will  you  never  cease  to  harass  and  drive  us 

And  to  tell  us  you  are  trying  to  benefit  us? — 

To  pretend  that  you  are  doing  on  our  account 

What  is  really  done  on  your  account? 

Do  you  suppose  we  have  ever  been  fooled 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    83 

Or  done  anything  but  hate  you  for  it? 
All  the  gaudy  words  that  you  give  us 
With'  your  picnics  and  papers  and  nurses 
Can  never  deceive  our  muscles, 
Which  you  have  turned  into  silly  machines, 
Nor  our  racked  and  exhausted  nerves 
Nor  our  offended  human  souls !" 

And  a  second  devil  appeared 

In  the  semblance  of  a  savant. 

He  looked  a  little  like  Mr.  Bertrand  Russell, 

Whom  Edgar  had  once  heard  lecture  on  politics, 

Having  gone  under  the  impression 

That  Mr.  Russell  was  going  to  speak 

On  the  relation  of  philosophy  to  the  calculus  of 

propositions. 

The  figure  was  surrounded  with  a  radiance 
Which  filled  Edgar  with  a  strange  awe: 
It  was  white  and  steady  and  calm  and  extraordi 
narily  limpid, 

And  made  the  black  street  look  as  black 
As  if  he  had  brought  Hell  with  him, 
And,  as  he  spoke,  it  seemed  to  Edgar 
That  he  was  speaking  with  as  much  detachment 
As  if  he  were  describing  the  causes  for  the  decay 

of  the  Roman  Empire. 
"The  capitalist  state,"  he  began, 
As  if  he  were  reading  from  a  book 
"Cannot  last  for  the  following  reason: 
The   issue   involved   is  not   really   one   of  shorter 


84        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

hours  and  higher  pay:  it  is  a  democratic  issue 
similar  to  the  one  on  which  feudalism  split  at 
the  end  of  the  XVIIIth  century.  The  em 
ployers  may  carry  paternalism  to  its  furthest 
possible  limit,  but  they  will  never  in  this  way 
be  able  to  cure  the  grievance  which  their  em 
ployees  have  against  them;  for  no  amount  of 
welfare  work  or  of  sliding  scales  can  ever,  in- 
the  long  run,  convince  the  employees  that  they 
are  not  being  exploited.  And  from  what  we 
know  of  humanity,  we  cannot  expect  of  men 
in  power  that  they  should  willingly  do  any 
thing  else  but  exploit  their  kind. 

The  democratic  claim  of  the  workers  to  control  the 
conditions  of  their  work  will  inevitably  re 
sult  in  some  form  of  industrial  democracy. 
This  may,  of  course,  prove  a  disappointment, 
like  republican  democracy;  but  at  least  the 
bourgeois  republic  had  this  advantage  over 
the  monarchy:  it  meant  that  the  people  gained 
certain  safeguards  which  they  had  not  had  be 
fore  :  they  were  able  to  impeach  the  President 
or,  at  least,  refuse  to  re-elect  him,  where  they 
could  not  have  rid  themselves  of  a  king  by 
anything  short  of  violence. 

We  need  precisely  similar  safeguards  in  the  indus 
trialism  which  has  swallowed  up  the  old 
Republic:  the  employee  cannot  rid  himself  of 
his  boss  by  anything  short  of  a  bomb.  Under 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    85 

a  system  of  Guild  Socialism  or  whatever  ar 
rangement  is  adopted,  it  is,  of  course,  conceiv 
able  that  the  employee  might  be  as  badly  fleeced 
as  before,  but,  at  least,  like  the  voter  in  the 
republic,  he  would  think  that  he  controlled  his 
destiny  and  be  comfortable  in  the  assurance 
that  he  was  represented  in  the  management. 

For  these  reasons,  it  is  evident  that,  unless  the  em 
ployers  show  more  foresight  than  they  seem 
capable  of  doing,  the  struggle  between  capital 
ist  and  worker  is  certain  to  become  more  and 
more  acute  and,  as,  in  this  country  particularly, 
it  is  neglected  by  professional  politics,  it  will 
probably  end  in  a  revolution  of  more  or  less 
violence.  After  all,  we  cannot  expect  the  capi 
talists  to  dispossess  themselves;  they  will  hang 
on  to  the  last  moment;  while  the  liberal  propa 
ganda  of  people  like  myself  will  probably  turn 
out  to  be  as  powerless  to  prevent  the  disaster 
as  the  propaganda  of  Voltaire  and  the  states 
manship  of  Turgot  were  to  forestall  the 
French  Revolution.  People  like  me  will  prob 
ably,  in  fact,  be  hunted  down  as  reactionaries, 
as  Condorcet  was  by  the  Terror.  The  bitter 
ness  of  the  oppressed  may  prove  as  cruel  as 
the  brutality  of  the  oppressors. 

I  am,  therefore,  I  may  say  frankly,  not  enthusias 
tic  about  the  prospect,  but  I  don't  know  who 
is  going  to  change  it:  there  is  a  democratic  is- 


86        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

sue  at  stake  which  makes  industrial  peace  im 
possible  and  which  renders,  I  may  perhaps  add, 
your  welfare  work  ridiculous." 
And  he  disappeared  in  a  glow,  like  a  clear  dawn 
in  March. 

And  as  Edgar  stood  chilled  to  the  bone, 

Unable  to  lift  a  foot, 

A  third  apparition  appeared — 

A  Parisian  pastry-cook — 

And  there  shone  about  him  the  gentle  air  of  the 

Ile-de-France. 

"I  sell  pastry  every  spring,"  he  announced, 
"At  a  shop  on  the  Boulevard. 
I  open  a  booth  on  the  street 
So  that  it  is  easy  to  buy  as  you  pass. 
It  is  impossible  to  keep  from  buying, 
Once  you  have  beheld  these  cakes, 
That  embody  so  much  fancy 
And  so  much  taste : 
The  Napoleons  are  fragile  and  crisp ; 
The  eclairs  are  filled  with  cool  cream; 
There   are  cream-puffs  studded  with  cherries  and 

containing   delightful    surprises. 
To  eat  them  is  to  love  life  better 
And  to  honour  the  human  spirit, 
Which  is  seen  no  less  in  these  cakes 
Than  in  the  panes  of  the  Sainte-Chappelle. 
Have  you  created  anything  comparable  to  them? 
You  have  nothing  but  chocolate  bars, 


The  Death  of  an  Efficiency  Expert    87 

Which   soften    and   grow   horribly   soggy   on    the 

station  stands  in  summer, 
Which  you  are  obliged  to  disfigure  public  places 

and  even  the   freshness  of  your  country-side 
With  garish  and  abominable  signs 
In  order  to  sell  at  all! 
And  yet  these  little  cakes  of  mine 
Are  all  made  with  my  hands 
And  I  can  perform  every  phase  of  the  process 
From  the  first  mixing  of  the  dough, 
Instead  of  knowing  only  one  detail 
Beyond  which  I  am  helpless !" 
And  he  vanished  like  a  meringue 
That  seems  to  melt  on  the  tongue. 

But  Edgar  stood  long  in  dumbness, 

Bewildered  and  terrified, 

And  then,  at  last,  cried  out 

In  horror  and  in  pain: 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done  that  my  soul 

Should  thus  be  clouded  and  torn? 

Why,  O  devils,  do  you  torment  me? 

Why  do  you  seek  to  destroy  me? 

All  my  life  I  have  tried  to  behave 

Like  a  good  American  and  a  Christian. 

I  have  never  spared  myself 

In  the  accomplishment  of  good  works. 

I  have  always  done  as  well  as  I  could 

What  I  believed  to  be  most  worth  doing." 

And  then  a  voice  replied 


88        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Which  excited  him,  yet  filled  him  with  fear: 

"Have  you  ever  really  believed? 

Was  it  devils  who  suggested  your  doubts? 

They  were   sent  to  rescue  your  soul   and  not  to 

destroy  it — 

For  they  are  the  servants  of  Lucifer, 
Who  has  taken  over  Apollo's  job!'* 

A  frenzy  seized  upon  Edgar — 
A  frenzy  of  knowledge  and  despair: 
He  saw  about  him  the  walls  of  jails, 
Where  men  were  being  wasted  and  racked; 
Their  hardness  pressed  flat  on  his  heart; 
Their  edges  ground  grooves  in  his  brain — 
And  over  everything  thickened  the  darkness 
That  made  him  know  he  was  in  Hell. 

He  rushed  headlong  towards  his  Plant 

In  a  panic  to  escape  that  prison; 

The  facade  of  the  Candy  Kitchens 

Ate  him  up  and  left  no  trace. 

Once  within,  like  a  dazed  self-immolant  at  the  altar 

of  some  savage  god. 
He   cast  himself   into   the   Schlegemann-Applegate 

Electric  Filler  and  Slicer — 
Which  made  him  into  chocolate  bars 
With  an  admirable  precision. 


The  Funeral  of  an  Undertaker 

I 

Shrunken  by  life  to  a  hard  grin, 
Alone  upon  an  unkempt  bed, 
The  man  whose  labouring  years  had  been 
A  watch  with  death  himself  lay  dead. 

His  eyes  stared  at  the  ceiling;  the  chin 
Had  fallen;  one  sleeveless  arm  was  thrown 
Limply  across  the  bed,  the  skin 
Pulled  thin  to  fit  each  finger  bone. 

Though  all  men  knew  that  he  was  dead 
No  waxlight  burned  beside  his  bed. 

And  no  one  from  the  village  came 
With  black  boards  for  a  coffin  frame. 

No  housewife  came  to  bind  his  mouth 
With  a  smooth  strip  of  linen  cloth. 

No  prayer  was  said,  and  no  one  swung 
The  bell  rope  where  the  church  bell  hung. 

II 

Year  after  year  the  villagers  had  watched 

91 


92        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

The  gutters  lose  their  evening  stains, 

The  skies  descend  and  the  grey  dusk 

Hang  cobwebs  on  the  window  panes, 

And  by  a  yellowing  street  lamp  seen 

A  hurrying  coat  of  blistered  green 

Clutched  by  one  hand,  meagre  and  blotched 

With  colourless  spots  like  a  bad  husk, 

A  shabby  hat  crushed  low  as  if 

To  mask  the  eye  they  had  not  seen — 

And  pressed  upon  the  sill  and  said: 

"So  the  old  buzzard's  got  a  whiff, 

He'll  soon  be  pecking  at  the  dead." 

And  some  of  them  there  were  that  leaned 

Hard  on  the  window  panes  and  turned 

Sallow  as  though  he  were  the  fiend 

And  they  were  souls  which  he  had  earned. 

None  knew  how  long  since  he  began — 

How  many  nights  since  first  he  held 

A  dripping  candle  to  lidless  eyes 

And  peering  let  the  hot  wax  fall 

On  lips  composed  for  burial. 

None  knew  how  long  since  he  began 

To  probe  the  dust  heaps  of  the  spirit 

And  finger  dusty  histories; 

But  slowly  this  washer  of  the  dead  discerned 

What  droll,  half-earnest  clowns  inherit 

The  masked  and  tragic  role  of  man. 

Not  even  the  child  who  heard  his  tread 

Scuffling  the  autumn  leaves  and  rain 

Could  guess  what  unpersuadable  pities 


The  Funeral  of  an  Undertaker      93 

Drove  him  forth  to  walk  the  rain, 

Or  how  this  lonely  washer  of  the  dead 

Was  by  his  own  deep  passion  comforted, 

Until  he  had  grown  old  as  ancient  cities 

That  have  looked  so  many  times  upon  their  slain. 

Keeping  no  thought  of  slackened  blood, 
Less  vigorous  bone  or  tardy  mind, 
He  watched  a  vain  and  dwarfish  brood 
Chatter  at  tasks  which  chance  assigned, 
Seeking  in  toil  what  poets  scarcely  find 
Among  the  shadows  of  the  immortal  wood. 
And  always  at  the  one  moment  when 
His  despised  craft  had  power  on  men 
He  sought  with  patient  pitiless  care, 
With  visible  wit,  to  make  aware 
What  puffed,  unprofitable  things  had  borne 
His  bitter  and  compassionate  scorn. 

With  starved  horse  and  bare  hearse  he  gave 

The  poor  in  spirit  to  the  grave ; 

And  nailed  the  comfortably  good 

In  coffins  of  worm-eaten  wood; 

He  showed  the  niggardly  and  mean 

By  hiding  under  ropes  of  green, 

Small  gaudy  flowers  and  bits  of  vine 

Their  yellow  coffins  of  cheap  pine. 

With  hearse  and  hack  on  polished  hack, 

Tacky  with  trappings  of  crimped  black, 

He  set  the  opulent  and  loud 


94        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Before  the  dumb,  lip-fallen  crowd. 

But  those  who'd  looked  in  bewilderment  on 

The  unintelligible  sun, 

Who  might  have  leapt  with  a  cry  and  bled 

Their  youth  out  on  a  barricade; 

All  those  whose  frustrate  hearts  had  cried 

For  braver  beauty,  and  so  died, 

Crumpled  and  dry,  broken  like  a  clod 

Too  many  heels  have  trod, — 

To  these  a  slow  processional 

Was  given, — a  silver  drooping  pall, 

Falling  in  sheeny  folds  which  shifted 

Stiffly  as  violent  horses  lifted 

Black  crests  of  thick  plumes  and  drew 

The  dim  pomp  to  the  grave. 

But  few 

He  found  among  his  kith  and  neighbours 
Who  earned  such  honour  of  his  labours: 
Some  nine  there  were  and  of  these  five 
He'd  known  but  slightly  when  alive. 

So  he  had  lived,  tormented,  proud 

As  a  poet,  hated  by  the  crowd 

That  paunched  and  bred  and  plied  a  trade, 

Kept  small  accounts  and  sometimes  prayed 

To  an  old  god  with  untrimmed  beard 

Who  kept  accounts  and  slily  peered 

Into  the  things  too  slily  done; 

Who  made  the  moon  and  trimmed  the  sun. 


The  Funeral  of  an  Undertaker     95 

And  all  these  when  they  heard  him  dead, 
Shrugged  their  bones  and  sniffed  and  said, 
"Good  riddance  to  the  village,  then; 
He  was  a  pest  to  honest  men." 

So  now  he  lay,  a  poor,  untended 
Wrack  of  shrunk  skin  and  jointless  bone, 
The  man  whose  endless  task  was  ended, 
Whose  anguish  stifled  like  a  groan. 

All  day  a  small  insistent  clock 
Ticked  and  slid  to  the  hours'  mark 
And  rattling  to  a  rusty  shock 
Hour  by  hour  brought  on  the  dark. 

And  with  the  dark  a  rat  came  out 
And  snuffed  among  stale  bacon  rinds 
And  chunks  of  bread;  a  leaking  spout 
Trickled;  a  gust  flopped  in  the  blinds. 

And  in  the  dark  the  dead  man  sprawled 
Like  one  who'd  stretched  a  bloody  reign 
And  in  his  violent  hour  had  called 
Upon  the  household  guards  in  vain. 

ra         v 

The  night  is  thin.     The  air  is  crisp, 
For  the  spring  is  scarcely  felt  at  night. 
The  air  is  still  with  a  windy  lisp 


96        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Where  the  first  leaves  in  the  thicket  are. 
The  moon  is  misty  as  a  star, 
But  the  rounded  stones  are  washed  with  white 
And  a  chance  spade  glints  with  steely  light. 

There  is  no  sound  at  the  graveyard's  edge 
Save  for  the  rustling  hornbeam  hedge; 
But  something  shivers  beneath  the  soil 
As  when  a  mole  is  at  his  toil; 
Something  struggles  under  the  ground, 
Thrusts  the  earth  to  a  gritty  mound, 
Squirms  and  flutters,  and  suddenly  there 
Is  a  frail  wisp  upon  the  air, 
Like  the  blue  smoke  of  sodden  leaves 
Which  children  burn  on  autumn  eves; 
It  writhes  and  gathers,  shifts  and  breaks, 
Thickens  with  colour,  waves  and  takes 
The  semblance  of  a  man  long  buried, 
Old  before  death,  his  gaunt  cheeks  serried 
With  furrows  where  the  rain  has  lain. 
Another  mound  of  grave-loam  stirred; 
A  second  gathered  shape;  a  third, 
Then  five  dead  men,  and  one  dead  woman, 
Cracking  the  ground  at  an  unheard  summon, 
Out  of  the  shapeless  air  unravel. 
They  glide  without  feet  along  the  gravel 
Between  black  borders  of  clipped  box, 
Brush  through  the  wicket's  spikes  and  locks, 
Glide  to  the  church,  where  no  one  tolls 
Except  for  pay  for  dead  men's  souls; 


The  Funeral  of  an  Undertaker      97 

Past  the  church  and  through  the  streets 

Where  smug  wives  snore  between  clean  sheets 

With  every  window  shut  and  barred 

And  a  restless  watchdog  in  the  yard. 

Then  at  a  word  no  lip  had  uttered 

Into  the  dead  man's  house  they  fluttered 

And  there  for  a  waiting  moment  stood 

Like  panting  things  of  bone  and  blood, 

And  stared  at  the  blind  shape  which  there 

Cluttered  the  green  distorted  square 

The  late  moon  in  the  window  made. 

For  these  of  all  whom  he  had  laid 
In  the  obscure  and  level  earth, 
These  only  he  had  thought  of  worth. 
These  alone  had  sought  to  enmesh 
Ecstasy  in  the  unholding  flesh, 
Or  with  stretched  throats  had  stood 
While  drums  and  scarlet  in  the  blood 
Arrayed  a  triumph  for  the  mind, 
When  raggedness  or  cold  assigned 
Their  aching  arms  to  swinging  slops 
To  pigs  or  storing  a  farmer's  crops; 
And  waking  to  the  white  rain 
Pecking  at  the  shingle  roof  had  lain 
Alone  and  awake,  while  with  young  breath 
Through  love  of  life  they  cried  for  death. 
And  these  now  from  the  grave  were  come, 
In  dumb  and  yearning  shapes  were  come 
To  bear  the  dead  man  to  his  grave. 


98        The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Four  abrupt  white  tapers  wave 

At  the  four  corners  of  the  bed. 

A  sudden  spectral  gesture  moulds 

The  hands  to  quiet,  the  feet  to  stone; 

And  circling  shadows  compose  the  dead 

On  a  low  bier  of  forgotten  boards; 

The  moonlight  through  the  bleared  panes  sifted 

Falls  on  a  pall  of  rigid  folds 

And  tassels  threaded  with  tarnished  cords. 

Then  with  a  light  of  tapers  lifted, 

Shuffling  as  if  to  a  monotone, 

Out  of  the  room,  the  narrow  door — 

Nodding  beneath  the  lintel's  beam — 

The  dumb,  black-leaning  phantoms  bore 

Their  burden ;  and,  as  if  seen  through  a  stream, 

Went  wavering  over  the  pavement  stones, 

Rocking  as  if  their  shoulders  shook 

Under  the  confused  weight  of  bones. 

No  shutter's  chink  widened  to  look 

With  a  quickened  eye  where  in  the  drowned 

Colour  and  glimmer  of  thin  moonshine 

The  corpse-bearers  shuddered  without  sound. 

No  window  gaped  for  the  watchdog's  whine 

As  with  its  load  the  processional 

Flickered  by  silent  door  and  wall, 

House  by  house,  to  the  street's  verge, 

Where  from  a  shadow  against  a  light 

It  dwindled  to  shadow  and  merged 

Into  the  phantasmal  night. 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier 

Henry  had  a  magnificent  thrill  at  the  Havre  rest- 
camp.  The  dirty  chicken-wire  bunks  of  the  French 
barracks  were  the  first  authentic  sign  he  had  seen 
of  the  squalour  of  the  war.  Everything  in  America 
had  been  adequate  and  new,  but  here  the  grasp  had 
slipped;  the  war  was  gaining  on  them.  The  filthi- 
ness  of  these  old  sheds,  where  for  three  years  sol 
diers  had  been  coming  and  going,  gave  him  a  ghastly 
sinking  of  the  heart,  to  which  lurid  rumours  added. 
It  seemed  that  things  were  very  desperate  and  they 
were  going  straight  to  the  front;  it  seemed  that  they 
were  going  to  be  brigaded  with  the  French.  These 
wholly  unfounded  statements,  born  of  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment,  had  at  once  been  accepted  as 
well-established  fact  and  everybody  was  telling 
everybody  else  about  them  with  a  grimness  not 
devoid  of  gusto. 

But  when  he  went  out  of  doors*,  he  was  exhil 
arated  by  the  November  sunshine,  which  brought 
out  the  reds  and  blues  and  khakis  of  the  passing 
uniforms  and  lent  splendour  even  to  the  barracks. 
He  watched  the  strange  crowd  with  wonder.  The 
English  officers  stalked  along  in  glittering  smart 
ness;  they  did  not  regard  the  rest  of  the  world  and 

99 


ioo      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

hardly  spoke  to  each  other.  The  French  poilus 
seemed  tired  and  untidy  and  ridiculousy  small. 
Here  and  there  one  saw  an  American  officer,  very 
solemn  and  a  little  self-conscious  of  the  freshness 
of  his  uniform.  He  would  have  thought  it  all 
rather  gay  if  he  had  not  been  in  the  Army  and 
felt  always  the  oppression  of  being  handled  like 
a  thing  without  will.  They  could  do  absolutely 
anything  they  liked  with  him;  he  had  felt  that  in 
the  barracks  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before.  They 
could  tell  him  to  go  to  more  horrible  places  than 
barracks  and  he  would  have  to  go  and  stay  there. 
And  he  was  dismayed  to  find  how  much  the  edge 
was  taken  off  his  enjoyment  by  the  iron  unshak 
able  sense  that  he  was  not  his  own  master.  Still, 
he  felt  keen  pride  at  being  there.  This  was  the 
World  War!  These  were  the  things  you  saw 
pictures  of  in  the  American  Sunday  papers ! — And 
how  much  he  had  grown  up  since  he  first  went  to 
camp  in  June ! 

He  had  enlisted  at  eighteen  on, his  graduation 
from  High  School.  "The  young  men  and  women 
who  go  out  into  the  world  this  spring,"  the  Super 
intendent  had  said  in  his  Commencement  address, 
"have  an  opportunity  for  glory  such  as  no  other 
class  has  had.  It  has  fallen  to  their  lot — it  be 
comes  their  inestimable  privilege — to  vindicate  be 
fore  the  world  the  fair  name  of  America  !  Nothing 
grieves  me  more  at  this  moment  than  the  fact  that 
I  am  not  young  enough  to  bear  arms  myself  and 


The  Death  of  a '  Soldier         101 

I  envy  you  young  men  with  all  my  heart  for  the 
Great  Adventure  that  is  before  you."  The  Minis 
ter  had  said  in  church:  "Take  up  the  sword  for 
Christ!  The  German  Antichrist — the  Ambassa 
dor  of  Hell — has  ravished  France  and  Belgium 
and,  unless  we  smite  it  first,  will  hold  bleeding  in 
its  talons  our  own  dear  land!  The  Hun  must 
be  made  to  drink  the  blood  he  has  ruthlessly  spilled ! 
He  must  suffer  every  torture  and  privation  he  has  in 
flicted  on  the  innocent !  We  are  fighting  not  only 
for  Democracy  but  for  Christianity!  'Vengeance 
is  mine!'  saith  the  Lord!"  And  Henry,  walking 
alone  in  scented  dusks  of  June,  had  decided  that 
even  his  uncle's  real  estate  business  in  New  Bedford 
was  far  too  flat  a  way  to  begin  the  world. 

The  first  weeks  of  his  training  had  disappointed 
him  a  little.  After  the  sober  piety  of  his  home, 
the  life  of  the  barracks  shocked  him.  Not  even 
when  he  went  to  High  School  had  he  heard  such 
language  as  that;  but,  since  that  was  the  language  of 
the  Army,  he  would  of  course  have  to  learn  it  and 
he  had  soon  mastered  a  vocabulary  that  clashed 
with  his  innocent  eyes.  In  a  month  he  had  learned 
all  the  other  things,  too,  that  are  fundamental  for 
a  soldier:  the  habit  of  not  making  plans  and  sur 
rendering  the  direction  of  his  life ;  the  right  formula 
in  morose  complaining  when  he  was  given  anything 
to  do;  how  to  produce  the  impression  of  working 
when  he  was  not  working,  but,  when  he  did  work, 
how  to  work  harmoniously  with  anybody;  self-re- 


102      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

pression  in  the  presence  of  officers  and  the  acceptance 
of  a  lower  valuation  of  himself  as  a  Private  in  the 
Army  than  as  a  student  at  High  School  and  the  son 
of  a  respectable  farmer;  ability  to  enjoy  and  get  on 
with  any  sort  of  man  and  inability  to  consider  any 
woman  except  in  one  simple  relation. 

Now,  he  felt,  he  was  really  almost  a  man.  He 
had  discovered  with  excitement  that  the  taboos  of 
home  need  not  be  binding.  You  could  curse  like 
a  baggage-man  if  you  wanted  to,  without  its  doing 
any  harm ;  and  the  men  who  swore  and  drank  most 
he  found  the  most  amusing  of  all:  they  seemed  to 
have  more  fun  in  them,  more  imagination  than  the 
others,  and  they  had  had  more  adventures.  As 
long  as  he  had  been  encamped  near  home,  to  be 
sure,  he  had  left  the  whores  alone,  but  when  he 
should  get  to  France — well,  everybody  knew  what 
France  was!  And  you  didn't  take  much  risk  be 
cause  the  Government  would  disinfect  you  after 
wards. — In  the  States  he  hadn't  been  able  to  drink 
except  furtively  and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  adven 
ture  and  freedom  that  he  went  into  the  English 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  had  beer  among  the  absurd  voices 
of  the  English  soldiers.  If  only  he  could  get  rid  of 
that  damn  cold  that  he  had  caught  on  the  ship  and 
from  sleeping  on  the  ground  at  Southhampton,  he 
would  be  pretty  well  satisfied,  he  thought.  .  .  . 

That  night  he  was  horribly  tired  and  had  a  sore 
throat  and  a  headache  and  he  tried  to  get  to  sleep 
early  in  the  barracks ;  but  there  were  a  lot  of  people 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         103 

drunk  who  kept  yelling  and  singing  till  midnight. 
And  after  they  had  subsided,  everybody  began  to 
cough;  it  was  like  the  barking  and  roaring  of  a  me 
nagerie.  "Sounds  like  a  goddam  T.  B.  ward!"  said 
somebody.  Then  all  the  lights  were  suddenly  turned 
on  and  raucous  voices  shouted:  UA11  out!"  It  was 
an  artillery  company  that  was  leaving  at  four  in  the 
morning.  They  swore  sullen  oaths  like  heavy 
blows.  Then  some  one  began  to*  sing  an  endless  ob 
scene  song,  which  afforded  them  some  relief  by  al 
lowing  them  to  join  in  the  chorus.  When  they  had 
finally  gone  and  the  lights  were  out  again,  the  No 
vember  fog  leaked  in  through  the  paneless  windows 
and  felt  for  his  legs  through  the  blankets  with  chill 
fingers.  He  was  thankful  for  the  chicken-wire,  any 
way,  he  told  himself,  because,  even  though  it  was 
dirty  and  no  warmer  than  sleeping  on  the  wind,  it 
was  luxurious  after  the  wet  ground  he  had  had  in 
England.  And  at  the  rest-camp  he  had  met  men 
who  had  told  him  about  sleeping  in  stables  on  dung- 
heaps.  Well,  that  was  what  he'd  soon  be  doing, 
too !  He  wondered  where  he  would  be  at  this  time 
next  week.  .  .  . 

The  next  day,  it  was  their  turn  to  leave*  at  four 
in  the  morning.  He  could  hardly  go  to'  sleep  for 
thinking  how  he  would  have  to  jump  up  quickly 
and  get  into  his  pack;  he  kept  waking  up  and  think 
ing  the  Sergeant  had  called  and  when  the  Sergeant 
did  call,  it  found  him  nervously  awake.  He  tore 
himself  out  of  his  blankets,  buttoned  his  breeches 


IO4       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

hurriedly  and  put  on  his  blouse  and  coat,  then 
spread  out  the  blankets  on  the  muddy  floor  where 
the  men  had  been  spitting  all  night.  He  struggled 
into  his  pack,  fumbling  in  desperate  haste — you 
were  always  afraid  the  command  would  come 
before  you  were  ready — and,  holding  his  rifle  and 
leaning  against  the  wall,  fell  into  a  sort  of  doze. 
His  throat  was  so  sore  that  when  he  swallowed  it 
seemed  to  have  a  sharp  knife  in  it. 

"All  out!     Fall  in!"  bawled  the  sergeant. 

They  stumbled  out  into  the  night  and  presently 
found  themselves  in  formation.  An  officer  ap 
peared  and  made  them  stand  at  attention,  then 
disappeared  and  left  them  there.  After  they  had 
stood  at  attention  for  fifteen  minutes,  the  Sergeant 
gave  them  "At  ease." — "What  the  hell  does  he 
care?"  said  somebody.  "He  sleeps  warm,  with 
comforters  and  everything.  I  seen  their  billets  yes 
terday."  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  the  officer  reap 
peared  and  gave  them  the  command  to  march. 

When  they  had  left  the  camp,  they  found  them 
selves  confronted  with  a  blank  darkness  thickened 
by  the  fog.  Only  here  and  there,  as  they  proceeded, 
was  the  road  illumined  by  a  ghastly  greenish  light 
from  a  feeble  street-lamp  with  a  blackened  top. 

At  last,  they  arrived  at  a  railway  track  where  a 
pygmy  unlighted  train  was  puffing  under  its  breath. 
When  they  had  stood  there  half  an  hour,  they  were 
ordered  to  get  into  the  box-cars.  The  Captain,  made 
a  little  self-conscious  by  knowing  the  command 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         105 

would  be  a  shock,  delivered  it  with  extra  harshness. 
They  clambered  up  in  deadly  silence.  Then  some 
one  had  the  courage  to  begin  cursing:  "Just  like  a 
lotta  goddam  cows!"  he  muttered  and  the  car  was 
filled  with  bitter  growls. 

They  found  by  falling  over  them  that  there  were 
four  benches  in  the  car,  two  at  each  end  and  parallel 
with  the  sides,  leaving  a  clear  space  in  the  middle 
from  one  side-door  to  the  other.  They  threw  down 
their  packs' in  a  heap  in  this  central  space  and  ranged 
themselves  on-  the  benches,  which  proved  to  be  so 
narrow  that  they  could  neither  sit  nor  lie  on  them 
without  a  constant  effort  of  bracing.  Everybody 
felt  angry  and  ill  and  they  began  to  quarrel  among 
themselves.  Some  one  had  made  out  and  explained 
the  sign  on  the  outside :  "Hommes  40  Chevaux 
(en  long)  8"  It  was  the  final  wound  to  self-respect, 
the  last  indignity  of  the  Army,  which,  although  the 
fact  was  plain  enough,  had  never  before  confessed 
that  it  put  American  soldiers  on  a  level  with  animals ! 
A  universal  complaint  arose.  "Aw,  this  ain't 
nothin' !"  said  a  voice.  "Wait  till  yuh  get  to  the 
trenches.  Then  you'll  wish  you  could  set  down  in  a 
box-car,  what  /  mean!" 

The  train  waited  there*  till  dawn,  shifting  back 
ward  and  forward  now  and  then,  with  much  bump 
ing  and  creaking.  Everybody  cursed  the  French 
railroads:  "Hell,  they  ain't  got  no  real  railroads 
in  this  goddam  country!'*  Then  they  seemed  to  be 
starting  and  got  as  far  as  a  station,  but  only  to  back 


106      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

up  again  and  wait  for  another  hour.  At  last  the 
train  seemed  to  pull  itself  together  and  set  out  half 
heartedly,  as  if  willing  at  any  moment  to  abandon 
the  struggle.  France  revealed  itself  as  a  grey  and 
desolate  country  where  everything  was  either  marsh 
or  mud.  The  towns  were  all  miserable-looking  and 
exactly  alike:  dull  red  roofs  and  yellow  walls  with 
washed-out  streets  between.  The  country  consisted 
mostly  of  barren  fields  and  dismal  woods,  inhabited 
by  unfamiliar  birds,  and  there  were  endless  lines  of 
poplar  skeletons  in  whose  fishbone-like  branches  the 
mistletoe  clumps  were  lodged  like  enormous  nests. 
And  everything  was  wet,  saturated  with  fog  and 
rain.  The  men  themselves  were  wet.  It  had  been 
at  least  a  week  sirce  they  had  been  really  dry. — So 
this  was  Europe ! 

As  the  morning  wore  on  they  began  to  get  hungry, 
but  the  supplies  were  in  the  last  car  and  they  had 
not  been  provided  with  emergency  rations.  When 
the  train  would  falter  to  a  stop  in  the  midst  of  some 
rain-soaked  wilderness  the  whole  company  would  yell 
for  food — "When -do  we  EAT?" — but  no  food  ever 
came. 

"Say,  you're  sick,  aincha?"  said  a  man  next  to 
Henry.  "You  better  lay  down." 

"There  ain't  any  place,"  he  answered;  the  central 
space  was  already  full. 

"Why  didun  yuh  go  to  Sick-Call  at  Hayver?" 
"I  did,  but  he  only  gave  me  a  CC  pill." 
"Goddam  ol'  horse-doctor!     These  here  Army 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         107 

doctors  dono  nothin'.  Here,  you  better  take  the 
corner  seat  so's  you  can  lay  up  against  the  wall." 

Henry  changed  places  with  him  and  was  very 
grateful  for  the  corner.  He  tried  to  relax  as  much 
as  he  could  without  slipping  off  the  seat.  He  shut 
his  eyes  and  tried  to  forget  the  acute  oppression  of 
his  headache  and  the  inescapable  cold  in  his  legs. 
The  jouncing  of  the  train  was  like  crockery  broken 
on  his  head;  the  oaths  and  coarse  words,  senselessly, 
endlessly  repeated,  like  something  less  than  human 
speech,  pounded  dully  against  his  brain  like  the 
regular  blows  of  a  hammer.  He  took  refuge  in 
finitely  far  inside  him,  putting  himself  back  home. 

The  images  were  diminished  in  size  and  concen 
trated  in  intensity,  like  something  sharply  focussed 
through  a  telescope;  the  wood-fire  in  the  sitting- 
room  gave  him  sharp  satisfaction;  the  pitcher  of 
water  in  the  dining-room  was  too  delicious  to  be 
believed — he  felt  that  he  could  drink  it  with 
fierce  passion.  He  put  himself  in  bed  on  a  Sunday 
morning  under  warm  blankets  and  a  "goose-chase" 
quilt;  the  gay  patches  of  the  quilt  had  a  familiar  se 
curity;  he  could  remember  that  when  he  was  little  he 
had  thought  of  them  as  alive.  The  square-paned 
window  was  up  and  he  could  see  the  great  smooth 
contours  of  the  hill-side  gleaming  with  snow,  the  ho 
rizon  as  clear  and  bare  as  the  room  in  which  he  had 
slept.  In  a  minute  or  two  his  mother  would  come 
and  call  him  curtly;  then  he  would  have  to  get  up 
and  dress  right  away;  because  no  extra  allowances 


io8      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

were  made  for  Sunday  morning  breakfast.  He 
would  dread  setting  his  bare  feet  on  the  cold  uncar- 
peted  floor  and  would  lie  staring  at  the  flowered 
wash-stand  set  and  the  signing  of  the  Declaration  in 
a  splotched  print  above  it.  But  oh!  how  warm  it 
was  with  your  feet  and  legs  in  bed !  .  .  .  Presently 
he  fell  asleep,  but  only  to  jerk  himself  into  wakeful- 
ness  when  he  began  to  lose  his  purchase  on  the  seat. 

They  stopped  at  a  red-tile-roofed  station  late  in 
the  afternoon  and  everybody  was  allowed  to  get  out. 
Having  had  no  food  for  twenty-four  hours,  they 
fell  upon  the  buffet  and  cleaned  it  up.  Everybody 
got  wine,  which,  tart  and  clear,  brought  deliciously 
to  the  bewildered  men  their  first  real  taste  of  the 
country.  Everybody  was  laughing  and  joking;  a 
faint  sun  had  appeared.  One  of  the  young  Lieu 
tenants  offered  to  supply  anybody  who  needed  it 
with  money  to  buy  wine  and  had  dispensed  a  great 
quantity  of  francs  when  the  Commanding  Officer,  a 
conscientious  Regular  Army  man  who  was  zealous  to 
forestall  "unsoldierly  conduct,"  put  a  brusque  stop 
to  the  charity  by  ordering  that  no  more  wine  should 
be  bought. 

When  the  train  jolted  on  again,  morale  had  enor 
mously  risen.  With  the  wine  aboard  it  became  pos 
sible  to  enjoy  the  thing  as  a  lark.  If  the  French 
built  toy  railroads  that  "didn't  go  no  faster'n  a 
horse  an'  buggy,"  was  that  any  reason  why  they 
should  forget  that  they  were  the  American  Expedi 
tionary  Force,  come  over  to  kill  the  Kaiser? — 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         109 

Everybody  fell  over  Henry,  who  had  taken  the  time 
when  the  car  was  empty  to  construct  a  bed  of  packs ; 
but  the  wine  made  him  feel  better  and  he  minded 
things  less. 

"Shut  that  goddam  door !     It's  cold  I" 

"Aw,  get  away  from  it  if  yuh  don't  like  it.  We 
wanta  see  the  world !  'Join  the  Army  and  See  the 
World!'  Christ,  I  could  see  more  than  this  on  the 
old  Pontiac  trolley-line!" 

"Jesus  Christ!  I  can't  say  much  for  this  wine. 
Jest  like  a  lotta  goddam  sour  grape-juice !" 

"Why,  Christ,  didunja  get  any  brandy?  They 
had  brandy  there,  too.  .  .  .  Why,  you  bas 
tard  !  of  course  they  had  brandy !  Don't  try  to  tell 
me  they  didun  have  no  brandy!  Didun  Dicky  get 
some?" 

"Why  Chur-rist!  If  I'da  known  that,  I  would- 
una  bought  all  this  here  goddam  red  ink!  It  ain't 
no  good  to  drink!" 

"Why,  I  find  it  very  stimulating,"  chirped  a  pro 
fessional  male  nurse  of  the  Sanitary  Detachment,  a 
bland,  bald-headed  man  with  the  voice  and  manners 
of  a  shop-girl.  He  had  had  two  bottles  of  his  own 
wine  and  as  much  as  he  could  get  of  other  people's 
and  was  now  softly  singing  My  Old  Kentucky  Home 
over  and  over  to  himself. 

"Say,  look  here !  I  can't  supply  the  whole  god 
dam  company  with  brandy!"  said  the  man  who  had 
some. 

"Who's  askin'  yuh  tuh  sply  the  whole  goddam 


no      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

compny  with  brandy?  I  only  ast  yuh  fer  a  drop!" 
demanded  one  of  the  messmen,  who  was  getting 
more  and  more  quarrelsome. 

"Now,  I'm  all  set,"  said  the  man  who  had  just 
got  the  brandy.  UA11 1  want's  a  woman." 

"It's  too  goddam  bad  we  coulduna  had  some 
wild -women  along.  That's  what  I  come  to  France 
for." 

"One  good  old  night  in  the  Arcade,  eh?"  sug 
gested  a  middle-aged  man,  who  claimed  to  be  a  law 
yer  in  civil  life. 

"I  wouldun  give  a  good  goddam  fer  the  Arcade !" 
shouted  the  messman  so  loud  that  he  could  be  heard 
above  the  hideous  rattle  of  the  cars  and  the  uproar 
of  everybody  talking  at  once.  (uSit  down,  you  big 
bastard !"  "Lay  down  and  go  to  sleep !") 

"I  tell  you,"  continued  the  lawyer,  "in  the  good 
old  days  when  I  was  at  Law  School  we  used  to  set 
out  on  the  front  stoop  and  hail  'em  in  from  the 
street.  We  used  to  ask  'em  just  to  come  in  for  a 
minute,  but  it  was  very  seldom  they  ever  got  out 
again  that  night,  what  /  mean!" 

"Say,  this  guy's  sick,"  said  a  man  near  Henry. 
"Why  doncha  move  over  and  lettum  lay  out?" 

"What  did  you  say?"  inquired  the  nurse. 

"Aw,  Jesus  Christ!  how  many  times  do  yuh  want 
me  to  say  it?  Get  over  and  let  this  guy  lay  down !" 

"I  can't  move  over  any  further.  There's  no 
more  room.  He  oughtn't  to  lay  right  next  to  the 
open  door,  anyway !  I  think  it's  perfectly  terrible ! 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         in 

The  idea  of  letting  a  poor  boy  lay  around  like  this 
when  he's  sick!" 

"Well,  that  night,"  continued  the  lawyer  with 
unflagging  zest,  (Henry  could  not  escape  that  per 
sistent  voice;  the  others  could  be  forgotten  as  dull 
amorphous  sounds,  but  this  one  was  so  distinct  and 
near  that  it  would  not  blur)  "we  had  so  much  to 
start  with  that  Jack  he  just  passes  out  before  din 
ner's  over  and  Flo  says  she's  going  out  to  look  after- 
urn.  And  that  left  me  and  Genevieve  all  alone. 
By  and  by  she  gets  pale  and  pitches  forward  on  the 
table  and  breaks  a  couple  of  glasses  and  I  had  just 
about  time  to  get  her  to  the  couch  when  Jesus 
Christ !  I  loses  my  own  lunch  right  in  the  cracked-ice 
pail.  I  didn't  come  to  till  about  six  the  next  morn 
ing  and  then  I  looks  over  at  -Genevieve  and  she  was 
just  the  colour  of  a  bum  oyster.  'Well,  Genevieve,1 
I  says,  'I  guess  we  don't  want  to  do  anything  now, 
do  we  ?'  And  she  rolls  her  eyes  over  at  -me  and 
says:  "No!  I  guess  we  don't  I" 

Twilight  had  erased  the  faded  countryside  and 
the  damp  autumn  air  had  become  sharp.  The  train 
kept  slowing  up  and  stopping  as  if  it  had  lost  its 
way.  The  open  sides  of  the  car  brought  the  coun 
try  all  too  close  to  them ;  they  might  almost  as  well 
have  been  down  among  those  wet  thickets  and  those 
cold  little  streams.  The  sight-seers  were  finally 
prevailed  upon  to  close  the  doors.  But  Henry  did 
not  feel  the  cold  so  much  now  and  was  no  longer 
conscious  of  the  delay;  the  only  things  he  wanted 


112       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

were  water  and  to  be  able  to  breathe  more  easily. 
He  had  emptied  his  own  canteen  and  then  had  dis 
liked  to  ask  for  too  much  from  his  neighbours',  but 
now  he  had  reached  a  point  where  thirst  had 
overcome  reluctance  and  he  was  willing  to  take  all 
they  would  give  him.  His  head  thumped  like  a 
dynamo  with  a  hot  ponderous  throbbing.  His 
breath  came  terribly  hard  and  had  begun  to  make 
a  hoarse  rasping  sound.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  dazzling  light  in  his  face;  he  turned 
his  head  to  avoid  it.  Then  somebody  was  shaking 
him  out  of  his  stupor.  Distant  voices:  "What's 
the  matter  with  yuh? — What's  the  matter  with 
him?"  "I  think  he's  got  a  fever,  sir.  If  there  was 
an  extra  place  in  one  of  the  regular  cars — " 
"What's  the  matter  with  yuh?  Cantcha  hear  I'm 
talkin'  to  yuh?" 

"Got  a  cold,"  murmured  Henry. 

"Let  me  see  your  tongue.  Say  'Ah/  Bowels  all 
right?" 

"If  there  was  room  in  one  of  the  regular  cars, 
sir — "  the  Sergeant  suggested  again. 

"Well,  there  isn't!"  the  Lieutenant  cut  him  short. 
A  former  physician  at  Police  Headquarters,  he  had 
learned  that  "all  two-thirds  of  'em  need  is  a  good 
swift  kick." 

He  shook  the  messman,  who  was  the  nearest  hu 
man  item  in  the  confused  mound  of  packs  and  human 
bodies  and  commanded  him  to  get  up.  Some  of  the 
men  prodded  him  and  helped  him,  swearing,  to  his 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         113 

feet  while  others  undid  a  blanket-roll  and  made  a 
sort  of  bed  on  the  floor. 

"Just  keep  him  warm,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  when 
he  had  finished  scolding  the  messman  for  disrespect. 
"I'll  give  him  something  when  we  get  there."  He 
jumped  down  and  the  train  started. 

"Aw,  I  bet  there's  lotsa  room  up  there,"  said 
somebody.  "They've  got  all  the  room  they  want, 
with  plush  seats  and  everything!" 

"It's  different  with  a  well  guy,  but  when  a  guy's 
sick  like  that,  why  Jesus  Christ !  they  might  show  a 
little  consideration." 

And  the  Sergeant  added :  "He's  just  as  kind  and 
gentle  as  a  crocodile,  that  bird  is!" 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!"  complained  the 
nurse,  who  had  not  said  a  word  when  the  doctor 
was  there  and  who  had  more  room  now  that  Henry 
was  moved.  "I've  had  professional  experience,  but 
they  won't  listen  to  me." 

"Now,  where  am  I  gonta  lay?"  roared  the  mess 
man.  "Sweet  Jesus!  Do  yuh  think  I'm  gonta 
stand  up  all  night?" 

"You  can  lay  along  the  roof,"  suggested  some 
body. 

"Well,  d'ye  know  what  you  can  do?"  bawled  the 
other  and  told  him  what  he  could  do. 

"Shut  up,  Striker,  and  go  to  sleep !  Cantcha  see 
the  guy's  sick?" 

"Well,  Jesus  Christ!  he  don't  hafta  be  sick,  does 
he?" 


114      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"Well,  he's  sick?" 

"Well,  he  don't  hafta  be  sick,  does  he?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well,  he's  outa  luck!" 

"Now,  look  here,  fellows!"  began  a  young  man, 
seizing  upon  the  opportunity  to  indulge  a  taste  for 
eloquence.  "There's  a  man  sick  in  this  car  and  we 
ought  to  try  to  make  it  comfortable  for  him,  just 
like  what  we'd  do  if  it  was  ourselves  that  was  sick. 
My  opinion  is  that  if  we  haven't  got  enough  con 
sideration  to  give  him  a  place  to  lay  down  in  we 
don't  deserve  to  bear  the  name  of  American  sol 
diers—" 

"Aw,  what  the  hell  yuh  talkin'  about?"  bellowed 
Striker.  "He's  got  a  place  to  lay  down  in,  ain't  he? 
If  a  man's  sick  I'll  get  up  and  give  him  a  place  to 
lay  down  in,  but  what  I  can't  stand  is  this  here  god 
dam  High  School  stuff !" 

"Shut  up,  yuh  big  bastard!"  "Shut  up,  both  of 
yuh!"  "Speech!  Speech!"  "Give  us  a  recita 
tion,  Shorty!" — And  Shorty,  already  on  his  feet, 
gave  them  Barbara  Frietchte,  The  Face  Upon  the 
Barroom  Floor,  The  Cremation  of  Sam  M'Gee,  a 
series  of  ribald  limericks  and  finally  Crossing  the 
Bar,  described  as  "the  dying  words  of  Lord  Tenny 
son."  Then  they  all  became  hilarious  and  sang 
Where  do  we  go  from  here?  and  The  Bastard  King 
of  England.  And  when  the  singing  was  over  and 
drowziness  had  made  them  quiet,  the  enthusiastic 
lawyer,  who  had  never  halted  his  narrative,  was 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         115 

heard  proceeding  to  a  climax:  "But  finally  I  de 
cided  that  I'd  had  enough  of  that  and  I  thought  I'd 
get  me  a  nice  girl  to  go  with  all  the  time.  So  I  did 
— a  waitress  in  Schwartz's  she  was — and  I  went 
with  her  regular,  going  kinda  easy  at  first — I 
thought  she  was  all  right,  see? — and  then,  goddam 
it!  what  did  she  do  but  hand  me  the  prettiest  little 
package  I  ever  had  in  my  life  1" 

The  train  stopped  at  a  large  station  and  nearly 
every  one  got  out  to  warm  himself  by  walking  up 
and  down  and  drinking  the  coffee  and  cognac  which 
some  genial  chirping  French  soldiers  were  ladling 
out  from  a  pail. 

"We've  got  a  sick  man  in  our  car,  sir,"  said  the 
Sergeant  to  a  mild  little  Lieutenant  of  the  Medical 
Corps,  who  had  asked  him  how  they  were  making 
out. 

"Let  me  see  him,"  suggested  the  Lieutenant. 

"He's  pretty  sick,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  when  he 
had  examined  Henry.  "He  oughtn't  to  be  here  at 
all.  I  wonder  if  we  couldn't  put  him  in  one  of  those 
ambulances  and  have  him  sent  to  a  hospital.  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do." 

He  found  his  Commanding  Officer  scowling  at 
the  smiling  and  unconscious  French  soldiers  who 
were  dispensing  bitter  coffee  to  the  eager  Americans. 
The  Major  had  tasted  the  cognac  and  was  standing 
stiffly  with  the  cup  in  his  hand,  mute  with  moral 
indignation. 

In  civilian  life,  this  Lieutenant  was  a  bacteriol- 


n6      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

ogist,  who  pursued  his  work  with  a  high  enthusiasm, 
scientific  and  humanitarian,  and  he  therefore  rarely 
felt  at  home  in  the  company  of  doctors;  he  was  a 
gentleman,  besides,  and  had  never  got  used  to  mili 
tary  manners.  When  the  Major  eyed  him  in  si 
lence,  he  began  to  sound  apologetic,  and  the  Major 
was  not  impressed.  "They've  all  got  colds,"  he 
said  and  threw  out  the  tainted  coffee  in  his  cup  with 
a  gesture  of  contempt.  "Lieutenant  Forbes  has 
seen  him.  That's  all  that  can  be  done." 

"It's  pneumonia,  I'm  quite  sure." 

"Well,  we  ought  to  be  in  tomorrow.  He  can  be 
attended  to  then.  I  shouldn't  like  to  let  a  man  go 
like  this  unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary.  I 
should  like  to  arrive  there  with  every  man,  if  pos 
sible." 

"But  would  you  mind  looking  at  him  yourself?" 
He  began  to  feel  helpless;  the  Major  thought  him 
unmilitary. 

Just  then  the  train  tooted  and  began  to  back  a 
little.  "Well,  it's  too  late  now,"  said  the  Major. 
"We  must  get  aboard.  I'll  see  about  it  at  the  next 
stop." 

They  reached  the  next  stop  at  about  three  in  the 
morning  and  the  Major  was  persuaded  to  look  at 
Henry  and  send  him  off  in  an  ambulance;  it  seemed 
that  there  was  a  Base  Hospital  nearby. 

"Now  please  be  sure  to  drive  very  slowly,  won't 
you?"  begged  the  Lieutenant  of  the  ambulance  dri 
ver;  (he  had  never  been  able  to  give  a  command 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         117 

properly.)  "It  may  make  a  great  deal  of  differ 
ence,  you  know,  because  he's  got  pneumonia  and  the 
jolting  might  make  him  worse. " 

"Yes,  sir,"  promised  the  driver;  but  as  soon  as 
he  got  beyond  the  town  he  began  winding  up  the 
smooth  straight  road  like  a  spool  of  tape.  It  had 
been  announced  that  the  train  of  wounded  he  had 
been  waiting  for  would  not  arrive  till  morning  and 
his  mind  was  full  of  the  plump  charms  of  a  certain 
cafe  patronne,  whose  husband  had  just  left  for  the 
front. — The  rush  of  the  car  drowned  out  Henry's 
no  less  harsh  and  mechanical  breathing.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  little  piece  of  cotton  in  his  throat; 
he  thought  if  he  could  only  get  that  out  he  would  be 
all  right.  He  coughed  and  coughed  and  coughed 
but  he  couldn't  dislodge  it.  He  remarked  on  this 
fact  to  the  Sergeant  and  later  to  his  sister,  who,  it 
seemed,  were  both  there.  Then  he  found  that  he 
was  being  horribly  shaken  up.  "This  is  the  dam 
nedest  straw-ride  I  was  ever  on,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
call  this  no  fun.  Straw-ride  without  any  straw !".  .  . 
But  the  train  was  slowing  down;  they  would  have 
to  get  out  and  march;  it  was  eight  miles  to  the 
camp.  He  must  be  able  to  put  his  hand  on  his  pack 
and  rifle  in  an  instant.  He  supposed  that  he'd  be 
able  to  get  into  his  pack  all  right,  though  he  didn't 
feel  very  well.  That  first  moment  when  you  heaved 
it  up  and  wrenched  it  on  to  your  shoulders  was 
agonizingly  hard,  but  after  that  no  doubt  he  would 
find  that  he  could  get  around.  They  would  all  fall 


n8      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

in  and  right-dress,  jostling  each  other  in  the  dark. 
.  .  .  Ah,  the  train  was  going  to  stop.  He  reached 
for  his  rifle.  Where  the  hell  was  it?  "Are  you 
going  to  stop  here,  Sergeant?"  .  .  .  Evidently  not. 
The  train  was  going  faster  again.  They  ought  to 
get  there  in  no  time,  at  this  rate !  .  .  .  "We  used  to 
sit  out  on  the  front  stoop,"  he  said,  "and  hail  'em 
in  from  the  street.  And  I  bet  very  few  of  'em  ever 
got  out,  either !"  .  .  .  Then  it  seemed  he  was  in  bed 
and  it  was  harder  than  ever  to  breathe.  Still,  it 
was  evidently  morning  and  they  would  have  to  leave 
the  barracks  any  minute.  Could  it  be  that  he  had 
overslept?  "Is  it  time  to  go  yet,  Sergeant?"  He 
got  out  of  bed  to  see.  "Here  !  what  do  you  want?" 
exclaimed  somebody  in  a  severe  voice  of  alarm. 
"I  want  my  shoes,"  said  Henry.  "Where's  my 
gun? — "  .  .  .  "All  right.  We'll  get  them  for  you. 
Now,  you  just  lie  still  and  keep  covered  up." 
Somebody  tucked  him  in.  "Have  you  got  a  glass 
of  water,  please?"  he  inquired  weakly.  .  .  .  Then 
things  became  more  and  more  obscure.  He  was 
aware  of  the  presence  of  a  man,  evidently  his 
father.  .  .  .  No:  it  was  the  Sergeant  at  last, 
summoning  him  to  go.  He  made  a  wild  effort  to 
get  out  of  bed,  but  they  held  him  down,  and  he  col 
lapsed  on  his  back  exhausted,  panting  faster  than 
ever.  .  .  . 

The  doctor  and  nurse  were  watching  him  at  noon. 
His  breath  had  become  as  rapid  as  the  ticking  of  a 


The  Death  of  a  Soldier         119 

small  clock;  his  lids  were  already  half-closed  over 
his  eyes,  his  unshaved  cheeks  dirtily  livid  and  his 
gaping  lips  sticky  and  discoloured  in  an  obscene  in 
human  mask;  his  head  was  strained  desperately 
back,  as  if  some  enemy  had  him  by  the  throat.  The 
panting  became  fainter;  the  clock  was  running  down. 
His  lungs  were  full  and  he  was  drowning.  Then 
he  had  caught  breath  and  struggled  on  again  till  he 
could  get  no  further.  Three  times  they  saw  him 
strain  to  the  surface,  only  to  go  down.  Henry  was 
nothing  but  a  thread  of  breath  forcing  its  way 
through  thickening  channels.  Then  he  was  noth 
ing.  .  .  . 

"He  put  up  a  pretty  good  fight  there  at  the  last," 
remarked  the  doctor,  noting  the  death  in  a  register. 
"If  this  keeps  up  we'll  have  to  have  a  special  floor 
for  pneumonia. — I  should  suggest  the  second  floor." 
He  smiled.  "Then  we'll  have  nothing  but  indiges 
tion  up  here.  Give  'em  something  to  do  down 
stairs. — But  seriously,  they  ought  to  isolate  these 
cases.  It  begins  to  look  like  an  infection." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  the  nurse.  "And  when 
you  consider  that  the  Army's  hardly  over  here 
yet-" 

"Now,  be  sure  all  his  personal  belongings  get  to 
the  right  place.  They've  -been  making  a  fuss  about 
that  lately." 

The  orderly  assembled  in  a  khaki  handkerchief 
all  the  things  in  the  pockets  of  the  uniform.  There 


I2O      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

were  a  pipe,  a  crushed  bag  of  tobacco,  photographs 
of  Henry's  mother  and  sister,  half-a-dozen  obscene 
post-cards  bought  from  a  man  who  had  been  to 
Paris  and  a  little  brown  leather  pocket-book  stained 
dark  with  sweat. 


The  Madman's  Funeral 

"Pape  Satan,  pape  Satan  aleppe!" 

The  wind  was  bitter  as  a  curse 
Above  the  little  pavement  where 
The  mourners  waited  with  the  hearse 
To  bear  the  madman  to  his  crypt; 
There  was  no  colour  in  the  air; 
The  very  trees  stood  lank  and  stripped. 

Somewhere  behind  the  listening  doors 
The  living  lifted  up   the  dead. 
We  heard  the  creaking  of  the  floors; 
We  heard  their  slow  unheeding  tread; 
Dimly  we  saw  six  shadows — then 
Six  shadows  stiffened  into  men. 

And  all  at  once  there  rose  a  squeal 
And  a  startled  devil  leapt  and  slid 
Along  the  madman's  coffin  lid, 
A  runty  devil  white  and  plump 
As  mushrooms  by  a  rotten  stump; 
His  eyes  were  sharp  as  pins  of  steel. 

And  swooping  after  swift  as  flame 
And  dark  as  blood  that's  partly  dried, 
On  tilted  feet  a  second  came; 

123 


124      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Who  sliding  from  the  coffin  rim 

Hopped  to  the  hearse  and  climbed  inside, 

Pulling  the  other  after  him. 

And  there  behind  the  polished  glass 
They  grinned  like  monkeys  in  a  cage. 
Four  demons  paced  with  studied  pomp 
Down  the  slow  steps,  rump  bruising  rump, 
Moaning  as  if  in  feeble  rage. 
And  last  one  visaged  like  an  ass 

Flicked  his  hoofs  to  a  two-heeled  trot, 
Scraping  a  rusty  violin, 
Held  between  nose  and  hairy  hand; 
He  tripped  behind  the  impious  band 
And  to  the  tune  of  an  old  gavotte 
Wheezed  a  low  catch  called  "Love's  a  Sin." 

The  crowd  gave  way;  the  living  bore 
The  dead  man  to  the  hearse's  floor. 
The  demons  gaped  like  routed  whores, 
Baying  a  dirge  profane  and  loud; 
While  those  within  sat  on  the  corse 
And  thumbed  their  noses  at  the  crowd. 

Then  with  a  shout  they  broke  and  ran 
To  find  them  each  a  cushioned  seat; 
One  goatish,  hairy  and  unclean 
Beside  the  clergyman  was  seen, 


The  Madman's  Funeral         125 

And  whispering  to  that  holy  man 

Rode  smirking  through  the  village  street. 

The  one  whose  shape  was  like  an  ass 
Moved  sidling  to  the  hearse's  wheel, 
And  seeing  where  the  coachman  was, 
And  a  bare  space  beside  him  there, 
Leapt  through  the  intervening  air 
With  a  click  of  heel  on  horny  heel. 

Amid  the  hearse's  decent  plumes 

Strange  music  sagged  from  strings  and  bone; 

And  one  whose  eyes  were  fierce  with  pride 

Sought  out  the  place  I  kept  alone. 

I  smelt  the  smell  of  opened  tombs 

When  he  had  climbed  inside. 

Silk  violet  gloves  episcopal 

Made  suave  the  talons  of  his  claws; 

His  paunch  let  yellow  foldings  fall 

Upon  the  shrunken  thighs;  he  smiled, 

Clasping  a  gesture  of  applause. 

A  whip  cracked  out;  drab  hackneys  filed. 

I  saw  the  people  left  and  right 
Stare   fearfully  before   a   sight 
So  solemn,  fat  and  atheous. 
"Alas  for  us!"  the  demon  said, 
"God  is  a  dolt  to  use  us  thus; 
Where  shall  we  rest  now  he  is  dead? 


126      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"But,  oh!  what  sport  we  had  of  himl 
Not  since  the  great  King  Solomon 
Lost  his  ring  at  the  world's  rim 
And  all  the  demons  under  sea 
Stretched  their  wings  and  sought  the  sun 
Has  any  known  such  jollity." 

Through  ends  of  streets  the  cortege  wound 
On  either  side  the  houses  stood, 
Huddled,  uncared  for,  skulls  of  wood, 
Black  windows  socketed  with  eyes. 
The  demon's  throat  grew  thick  with  sound: 
"The  madman  once  was  otherwise. 

"Joy  was  his  in  the  clear  light 
And  in  the  colours  of  the  air, 
In  rooms  where  skilful  violins 
Renewed  his  adolescent  sins; 
Love  was  his,  and  in  his  sight 
One  fair  woman  seemed  more  fair. 

"We  crept  on  him  with  swaying  tread; 
Through  sleeves  and  fingers  whispering, 
Shaped  words  so  lewd  and  blasphemous 
That  love  became  a  leprous  thing. 
We  laughed  each  night  beside  his  bed 
Till  God's  own  laughter  answered  us. 

"And  still  we  whispered,  'Love  is  lust, 
The  blue  but  grey,  a  broken  tune 


The  Madman's  Funeral         127 

Outtops  the  mouth  of  melody/ 
We  turned  the  earth  to  stinking  dust, 
We  dimmed  the  sun  and  left  the  moon 
A  twisted  penny  in  the  sky. 

"We  sucked  his  pores  with  pallid  lips, 
We  mirked  the  blood  within  his  heart, 
We  drove  him  forth  with  iron  whips, 
We  scourged  him  back  with  bloody  rods  ; 
Then  drew  him  to  a  place  apart 
To  intimate  this  work  was  God's." 

The  carriages  began  to  wind 
Into  a  place  of  mounds  and  stones, 
Hedges  of  bronze-green  box  and  yews 
Green-black  and  clipped  to  curious  cones. 
The  fiend  resumed:    "Tonight  I  choose 
Another  nicely  fashioned  mind." 

The  carriage  stopped.    The  corpse  went  by 

And  shadows  in  stiff  folds  of  black. 

I  looked  into  the  demon's  eye 

And  saw  therein,  circled  with  fire, 

My  own  eyes  staring.     I  left  the  hack, 

And  with  the  fiend  plashed  through  the  mire. 

We  reached  the  grave.    I  looked  and  peered, 
Nor  saw  a  devil  anywhere ; 
But  straight  the  coachman  seized  a   fife 
And  played  an  old  and  ribald  air; 


128      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

And  through  the  prayers  the  parson  leered 
With  hot  eyes  at  the  sexton's  wife. 

Behind  the  fir  tree  of  his  aunt's 

Ungainly  tomb,  the  grocer  found 

A  fiery  flask;  a  crape  veil  shrieked 

And  passed  into  a  rigid  trance; 

And  a  boy  laughed.     The  grave  ropes  creaked, 

The  coffin  sank  into  the  ground. 

Earth,  falling  stone  and  gritty  clay 
Resounded  from  the  coffin  lid; 
Spades  crunched  on  earth  and  scraped  on  stone ; 
Earth  fell;  at  last  a  low  mound  hid 
The  place  where  the  madman's  body  lay. 
The   crowd   dispersed.      I   stood   alone. 

I  dared  not  move.    A  sudden  dread 
Was  on  me  lest  I  turn  my  head 
And  see  naught  but  the  frozen  sod 
And  the  stiff  trees  which  twilight  blurred; 
For  in  my  thought  I  shaped  a  word 
Cruel  and  meaningless  as  God. 


Emily  in  Hades 

Emily  had  died  of  influenza  in  the  stiff  and  rather 
barren  bed-room  which  no  longer  than  a  year  be 
fore  she  had  fitted  up  with  wedding  presents.  Her 
husband  sat  dry-eyed  and  dazed,  aghast  before  the 
prospect  of  his  future;  it  was  not  that  a  great  pas 
sion  had  united  them;  it  was  not  that  the  contrast 
was  so  great  between  Emily  lying  beside  him  living 
and  Emily  lying  beside  him  dead;  but  he  had  really 
been  fond  of  Emily  and  had  grown  completely  ac 
customed  to  her,  and,  having  worked  very  hard  to 
support  her  in  the  bondselling  business,  now  found 
himself  at  a  ghastly  loss  as  to  why  he  should  go  on 
selling  bonds.  He  had  thought  he  had  his  life  so 
securely  arranged,  with  everything  provided  for, 
and  now  what  he  had  supposed  the  safest  of  his  in 
vestments  had  completely  failed.  He  ought  to 
have  prevented  it  somehow,  his  well-trained  con 
science  told  him;  he  had  been  found  wanting  in  ef 
ficiency.  If  he  had  only  been  firmer  about  over 
shoes,  she  would  never  have  caught  that  cold. 

But  Emily  herself  only  knew  that  she  was  no 
longer  being  smothered:  the  pillows  had  suddenly 
dissolved  from  her  chest  and  the  pain  been  snuffed 
out  in  her  throat.  She  was  standing  in  a  kind  of 

129 


130      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

dark  mist,  which  she  thought  at  first  was  the  night. 
Yet  it  was  not  quite  like  the  night  nor  even  quite  like 
the  twilight.  It  was  more  like  the  hour  before 
dawn  when  even  the  stars  are  blotted  out.  It  was 
all  so  strange  that  she  forgot  to  feel  relief  at  being 
a  real  person  again.  It  was  like  waking  up  from  a 
fainting  fit:  you  could  hardly  recognize  yourself. 

When  she  did  come  to  think  about  herself,  she 
wondered  if  she  were  a  real  person.  She  was  con 
scious  of  nothing  but  her  thoughts  and  of  the  grey 
dimness  that  surrounded  her.  She  could  neither 
smell  nor  taste  the  mist  nor  feel  whether  it  were 
warm  or  cold.  She  must  be  in  a  dream,  she  thought; 
one  didn't  taste  or  feel  in  dreams.  But  her  situa 
tion  seemed  natural  and  fixed,  as  it  never  did  in 
dreams.  She  tried  to  remember  what  had  hap 
pened  to  her;  she  had  been  very  sick  in  bed  (she 
could  see  it  all  objectively  now)  ;  she  had  become 
more  and  more  uncomfortable,  so  uncomfortable 
that  she  could  not  stand  it;  she  had  thought  she 
was  going  to  die. — Then,  definitely,  in  a  flash,  she 
realized  that  she  had  died. 

But  she  did  not  at  first  feel  distress  at  having  left 
her  husband  and  the  world;  she  was  filled  with 
the  buoyancy  of  freedom  and  thrilled  with  ad 
venture  like  a  child.  So  you  came  out  all  right 
on  the  other  side  and  you  were  still  you!  She 
laughed  in  her  joy  of  release;  she  was  all  alive 
with  expectancy.  Perhaps,  she  thought  with  ex- 


Emily  in  Hades  131 

citement,  she  was  at  last  going  to  listen  to  the 
music  she  had  been  waiting  for  all  her  life  ! 

When  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  queer 
darkness,  she  saw  that  she  was  on  the  edge  of 
something:  there  was  a  great  slate-grey  floor  in 
front  of  her  stretching  off  into  misty  remoteness  and 
along  it  lay  a  rough  rock-like  strip  with  blackish 
cracks  and  streaks;  beyond  this  and  behind  her 
rose  a  thick  and  profound  darkness,  like  a  bot 
tom-less  black  sea.  And  then  she  saw  that 
the  strip  was  a  beach,  a  beach  without  sand  or 
seaweed,  as  bare  as  a  belt  of  lava. 

Scrutinizing  this  strange  shore,  she  made  out  a 
shape  like  a  boat  that  seemed  to  be  lying  beached, 
not  far  away  on  her  left.  She  started  toward  it, 
noticing  as  she  went  that  she  could  not  feel  the 
the  ground  beneath  her  feet.  When  she  had  come 
nearer,  she  found  that  it  was  a  big  unpainted  flat- 
bottomed  barge,  with  an  old  man  sitting  in  the  prow. 
As  she  stopped  and  stood  in  doubt  a  few  yards 
away,  he  turned  and  regarded  her  without  interest 
from  dim  and  lifeless  eyes,  and  she  suddenly  be 
came  aware  that  she  had  nothing  on  but  a  night 
gown  and  that  her  hair  was  down  her  back. 

"Get  in,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Why?"  asked  Emily.  " Where  will  you  take 
me?" 

"Over  to  Hades,"  he  replied. 

"But  I'm  not  dressed!"  she  protested. 


132       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  so  much  as  if  everything  were  a  mat 
ter  of  course  and  seemed  to  take  so  little  interest 
in  the  conversation  that,  after  hesitating  a  mo 
ment,  she  climbed  into  the  boat,  because  it  seemed 
to  present  itself  as  the  only  thing  to  do.  And,  as 
soon  as  she  had  taken  her  place  on  a  plain  plank 
seat  in  the  stern,  the  old  man  came  down  to  the 
centre,  pushed  the  boat  off  from  the  shore,  and  fitting 
great  clumsy  oars  to  the  locks,  began  to  row  silently 
away.  As  he  sat  facing  Emily,  she  observed  him 
as  well  as  she  could  in  the  strange  atmosphere,  which 
made  everything  shadowy  and  uncertain,  like  things 
seen  in  moving  pictures,  or  rather,  she  presently 
amended,  like  things  thought  and  not  seen — as  if 
there  were  no  real  substance  which  the  senses  could 
touch  or  smell,  but  only  shapes  seen  and  heard  as 
one  sees  and  hears  in  one's  mind.  He  was  dressed 
in  old  and  weatherworn  clothes,  as  colourless  as 
the  barge,  and  bent  above  his  monstrous  oars  with 
infinite  weariness  and  indifference.  The  lumbering 
boat  seemed  scarcely  to  disturb  the  leaden  surface 
of  the  water. 

"You  say  that  you  are  taking  me  to  Hades?" 
she  at  length  took  courage  to  inquire.  "Isn't  there 
any  Heaven  then?" 

"No,"    he    answered,    "There's   no    Heaven." 

"But  what  about  God?"  she  asked. 

"God  is  dead,"  he  replied. 

"But  I  thought  that  God  was  immortal." 


Emily  in  Hades  133 

"How  could  man,  who  lives  so  short  a  time,  hope 
to  make  a  God  who  would  be  deathless?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  answered  her  questions 
as  part  of  a  monotonous  routine.  Everybody  who 
came,  she  supposed,  must  ply  him  with  the  same 
questions.  And  the  thought  of  the  innumerable 
millions  of  souls  whom  he  must  have  ferried  across 
and  the  innumerable  millions  more  who  were  still 
to  get  into  his  boat  and  ask  about  Heaven  and  God 
and  receive  disappointing  answers  appalled  her  and 
dulled  her  hope  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  jour 
ney.  After  all,  it  appeared  that  Hades  was  a 
dreary  sort  of  place.  She  would  have  thought 
it  might  at  least  have  been  horrible  or  in  some 
other  way  exciting.  If  Charon  had  only  been 
kindly,  or  hateful,  or  grand,  instead  of  being  simply 
indifferent  and  stultified  by  his  work!  Her  thrill 
of  adventure  faltered;  was  death  going  to  be  just 
like  life? — She  did  not  often  indulge  in  thrills,  hav 
ing  learned  that  nothing  ever  happens.  If  you 
thrilled  in  anticipation,  you  were  sure  to  be  disap 
pointed.  So  Emily  had  found  life  and  probably 
death  was  no  different.  .  .  . 

But  presently  she  spoke  again:  "Isn't  there  any 
music  in  Hades?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "No  music." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  she  went  on:  "Tell 
me,"  she  said,  "how  shall  I  ever  find  the  people 
I  know,  when  I  arrive  over  there?" 

"I  shall  land  you  where  you  belong." 


134      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"Is  every  one  who  ever  died  in  Hades?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"But  aren't  they  all  mixed  up  together? — I  mean, 
the  countries  and  the  periods." 

"No:  not  much." 

"But  why  aren't  they?" 

"Because  people  don't  feel  at  home  down  here  in 
other  countries  and  ages  than  their  own  any  more 
than  they  do  on  earth." 

"But  I  should  think  the  chances  to  meet  people 
would  be  so  terribly  interesting — with  everybody 
who  has  ever  died  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to 
choose  from." 

"They  don't  like  anybody  who  has  lived  any  dif 
ferently  from  themselves.  They  keep  to  the  same 
little  groups.  It  is  just  the  same  as  on  earth." 

They  were  nearing  the  shore  now;  it  lay  like  a 
grey  line  on  the  water.  She  strained  her  eyes,  in 
the  dimness,  to  make  out  what  it  was  like;  as  the 
boat  came  closer  and  closer  it  resembled  more  and 
more  exactly  the  shore  they  had  just  left  behind. 
She  thought,  in  a  gust  of  impatience,  what  was  the 
use  of  having  two  shores,  if  they  were  both  going  to 
be  just  alike?  She  tried  to  tell  herself  again  that 
everything  was  just  like  that  in  life,  but  she  couldn't, 
for  all  her  resignation,  keep  from  feeling  a  little 
forlorn.  She  was  going  to  see  people,  that  was 
true — all  sorts  of  people,  perhaps :  for  she  swore 
that,  now  she  was  dead,  she  was  going  to  know  more 
of  the  world;  no  little  groups  for  her! — but  the  in- 


Emily  in  Hades  135 

difference  of  the  old  man,  the  greyness  and  vague 
ness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  impression  of  nothing 
ever  happening,  of  nothing  ever  expected  to  happen, 
chilled  her  heart  with  an  apprehension  of  some 
ghastly  disappointment. 

Still,  she  told  herself  as  they  arrived,  it  couldn't 
really  be  so  bad;  it  must  at  least  be  very  different 
and  strange.  .  .  . 

Charon  pushed  the  boat  with  his  oar  till  it  stuck 
in  the  shallow  water.  "You  can  get  out  here,"  he 
said. 

"But  I'll  get  my  feet  wet!"  she  protested. 
"Can't  you  push  it  up  where  it's  dry?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  replied.  "You'll  find 
that  you  can't  feel  the  water." 

So  she  got  out  and  stood  on  the  beach  and  found 
that  what  he  said  was  true;  just  as  she  could  not 
feel  the  firmness  of  the  ground,  so  she  could  not 
feel  the  coldness  of  the  water  that  wavered  about 
her  bare  feet. 

Then,  as  the  old  man  said  nothing  more,  but 
rested  listlessly  on  his  oars,  she  remembered  some 
thing  she  had  heard  about  paying  Charon  with  an 
obol. 

"I'm  sorry  I  have  no  money,"  she  explained. 
"Perhaps  I  can  borrow  some." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  replied.  "There's  no 
need  for  money  here." 

"Why  not?" 

"There's  nothing  to  buy." 


136       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

»  i       > 

"People  don't  eat  here,  I  suppose." 
"No,"  he  answered,  "people  don't  cat." 
She  turned  and  walked  up  the  shore.  There  was 
no  wall  of  darkness  here;  only  a  kind  of  flat  wide 
plain  with  a  misty  uncertain  horizon.  She  felt 
timid  about  going  further;  it  was  impossible  to  see 
straight  before  you;  the  air  was  mysterious  with 
shadows  and  there  was  no  telling  what  was  behind 
them.  And  then,  she  was  almost  undressed;  she  did 
not  want  to  go  among  people;  she  would  feel  un 
dignified  and  ridiculous — at  a  terrible  disadvant 
age. — But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  she  could  hardly 
stay  on  the  shore.  So  she  walked  up  among  the 
shadows. 

She  found  it  was  rather  like  a  fog;  you  could  see 
immediately  around  you,  but  you  could  not,  except 
by  glimpses,  see  anything  very  far  away.  Once  she 
thought  she  caught  a  human  shape  that  passed  ob 
scurely  at  a  distance  and  she  hurried  on  in  terror. 
Then,  right  upon  her,  two  shapes  seemed  to  come 
around  a  shadowy  corner  and  passed  quite  close  at 
her  side;  and,  staring  fearfully  in  their  faces,  she 
recognized  them  as  people  she  had  known  in  the 
town  where  she  had  been  born.  They  were  an  el 
derly  married  couple,  who  had  used  to  come  to  din 
ner  sometimes.  The  man  was  still  wearing  the 
suit  he  had  had  on  when  he  was  killed  in  a  motor 
accident,  on  an  election  night  celebration;  and  he 
was  still  displaying  in  his  lapel  an  enormous  cellu 
loid  button  with  the  legend:  "Vote  for  Taft." 


Emily  in  Hades  137 

But  the  woman,  she  was  glad  to  note,  wore  a  night 
gown  like  her  own,  having  died  respectably  in  bed. 
They  had  never  been  happy  together,  but  they  now 
walked  side  by  side,  as  if  from  sheer  force  of  habit. 
Neither  turned  to  Emily  nor  spoke;  she  could  not 
even  tell  whether  they  had  seen  her.  They  passed 
on  and  dissolved  in  the  shadows,  two  lifeless,  colour 
less  beings,  wandering  slowly  and  in  silence,  with 
out  interest  or  aim. 

Then  other  shapes  commenced  to  appear,  moving 
singly  or  in  groups;  they  were  evidently  all  people 
from  the  place  which  had  once  been  her  home. 
They  kept  still  to  the  same  companions,  she  ob 
served,  as  when  they  had  actually  lived  there;  the 
lawyer  walked  beside  the  doctor,  the  barber  beside 
the  tobacconist,  and  families  who  had  hated  each 
other  but  had  continued  to  live  together  were  by  no 
means  divided  in  death.  And  none  of  them  noticed 
Emily  any  more  than  they  noticed  each  other.  It 
wounded  her  that  people  she  had  known,  who,  she 
had  once  supposed,  had  been  fond  of  her,  should 
not  trouble  to  welcome  her  among  them  or  be  sorry 
she  had  died  so  young.  As  she  walked  on  and  on 
in  the  dusk  and  never  heard  a  human  voice,  she 
decided  at  last  that  she  must  be  brave  and  try  speak 
ing  first  to  somebody. 

She  was  walking  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  wide 
clearing  in  the  shadows,  rather  like  a  large  open 
field,  and  at  the  end  of  it  she  saw  pacing  slowly 
back  and  forth  across  its  width  the  thin  figure  of  a 


138      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

woman,  with  her  head  bent  toward  the  ground. 
This  was  an  opportunity,  thought  Emily;  she  would 
rather  approach  one  person  than  a  group  and  a 
woman,  she  somehow  felt,  would  be  better  than  a 
man.  So  she  advanced  shyly  across  the  field  and 
cut  off  the  woman  in  her  walk. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  "but  could  you 
give  me  some  information?" 

The1  woman  stopped  abruptly  in  her  steady  and 
monotonous  pacing  and  looked  up  with  something 
of  the  uncertainty  and  apprehension  of  an  old 
woman — though  Emily  could  see  that,  when  she 
died,  she  could  not  have  been  much  above  fifty. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know?"  she  asked,  in  a 
slightly  petulant  tone. 

"I'm  trying  to  find  my  mother,"  explained  Emily. 
"Her  name  is  Mrs.  Julius  Allen." 

The  woman  scrutinized  her  a  moment.  "Aren't 
you  Emily  Allen?"  she  asked. 

It  was  the  Head  Mistress  of  the  boarding  school 
to  which  Emily  had  been  sent  in  her  teens;  but  she 
seemed  to  Emily  much  changed  from  the  last  time 
she  had  seen  her.  Her  face,  which  had  once  been 
so  severe,  with  so  firm  a  mouth,  seemed  flaccid  and 
distressful  now,  shaken  and  vexed  by  pain. 

"You  startled  me,"  the  woman  went  on.  "I 
came  back  in  here  purposely  so  that  I  shouldn't  be 
always  pestered  with  the  questions  of  newcomers. 
I  advise  you  to  do  the  same  thing.  You'll  find  it 
will  save  you  a  lot  of  bother." 


Emily  in  Hades  139 

She  was  no  longer  a  mistress  and  queen  giving 
lofty  warnings  and  commands  to  a  miserable  little 
girl,  who  stood  terrified  in  her  presence.  With  her 
first  words  the  old  relation  of  mistress  and  pupil 
was  abandoned  and  she  seemed  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  they  were  both  poor  creatures  to 
gether,  with  no  further  need  for  appearances  on 
either  side  and  no  interest  other  than  the  avoidance 
of  being  disturbed,  as  if  they  had  been  "set"  old 
bachelors  or  nervously  peevish  invalids. 

And  Emily  was  profoundly  shocked  at  her  old 
superior's  abjectness;  she  felt  as  if  she  had  gone  be 
hind  the  scenes  of  a  play,  a  play  in  which  she  had 
believed,  and  had  seen  the  backs  of  the  canvas  trees 
and  the  actors  washing  off  their  paint.  But  her 
first  dismay  was  succeeded  by  a  swift  and  eager  re 
sentment.  Why  should  she,  a  strong  young  girl, 
be  classed  with  a  peevish  old  woman?  What  did 
the  teacher  mean  by  speaking  as  if  they  were  both 
convicts  in  a  jail,  old  women  in  a  poor-house?  She, 
Emily,  had  been  married,  anyway.  She  was  not  a 
sallow  sterile  spinster.  And,  as  she  stood  before 
that  flat-chested  figure  in  its  shapeless  undress  of  a 
kimono,  she  was  proudly  conscious  of  th£  little 
breasts  that  lifted  her  own  girl's  nightgown. 

And  she  fed  this  new  resentment  with  all  her  old 
grievances  against  her.  How  many  lies  this  woman 
had  told  her!  What  a  lot  of  cant  she  had  talked! 
How  she  had  repressed  and  imprisoned  her  stu 
dents  and  kept  them  from  seeing  young  men,  till 


140       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

they  had  been  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  the  doctor  at 
the  school  or  the  man  who  brought  papers  in  the 
morning!  She  had  lectured  them  on  purity  and  re 
serve  and  their  mission  of  inspiring  their  knights; 
they  were  to  perform  a  function  almost  religious, 
to  embody  Tennysonian  ideals.  She  had  painted  a 
figure  in  gleaming  white  with  a  worshipper  kissing 
its  hem.  And  she  had  somehow  made  them  feel 
that  love  was  something  impious  and  unclean;  she 
had  infected  Emily  with  a  fear  and  distaste  she  had 
never  quite  got  over,  though  it  had  greatly  per 
plexed  and  distressed  her  to  guess  that  her  husband 
should  find  her  cold.  He  enjoyed  love  more  than 
she  did,  she  was  sure  of  that,  and  she  sometimes 
wondered  if  other  women  enjoyed  love  more  than 
she.  ...  In  any  case,  she  was  angry  with  the  peo 
ple  at  her  old  school,  who  had  misrepresented  love 
and  left  her  to  be  harrowed  by  shocks  more  painful 
than  any  she  could  have  had  from  the  truth. 

She  had  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  thrown  off 
by  the  fatuous  advice,  but  at  last  she  suddenly  burst 
out,  with  unaccustomed  boldness  and  authority: 
"Let  me  ask  you  something,"  she  demanded,  "why 
did  you  never  tell  me  anything?" 

The  other  seemed  to  wince  a  little. 

"Because  I  knew  nothing  myself,"  she  said. 

"But  I  suffered  for  believing  your  lies,"  the  girl 
cruelly  went  on.  "You  did  us  all  a  great  injury. 
After  all,  we  were  all  young  girls.  You  should 
have  taught  us  something  about  love  along  with  the 


Emily  in  Hades  141 

trigonometry.  That  was  going  to  be  the  business 
of  most  of  us!" 

"Ah,  why  do  you  tell  me  all  this?"  cried  the 
woman,  appealing  to  Emily  with  eyes  full  of  bitter 
ness  and  grief.  "I  have  suffered  much  worse  than 
you,  because  I  have  lived  much  longer,  and  because 
I  lived  all  that  time  by  the  light  of  my  own  teach 
ing.  I  could  not  throw  it  off  as  easily  as  you  could 
when  you  left  me.  It  was  like  an  armour  about  me ; 
I  carried  it  all  my  life.  You  see,  I  believed  in  reli 
gion.  I  thought  I  was  serving  God.  I  believed 
that  everything  I  sacrificed  would  be  made  up  to  me 
after  I  died.  And  now  it  seems  that,  after  all,  re 
ligion  wasn't  really  true  and  there's  nothing  but  this 
pagan  Hell.  How  could  I  have  known  that?" 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me!"  begged  Emily. 
"I'm  terribly  sorry!"  And  in  shame  and  distress 
at  having  scolded  this  anguished  and  defeated  crea 
ture,  she  tried  to  take  her  by  the  hand  and  kiss  her 
on  the  cheek,  but  the  hand  was  not  warm  in  her  own 
and  her  lips  felt  nothing  against  them.  "I'm  sorry, 
I'm  sorry,"  she  repeated. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  teacher.  "Nothing 
really  matters  here."  And  at  this  Emily  felt  un 
comfortable,  as  she  had  at  old  Charon's  indifference, 
and  a  chill,  almost  of  resentment,  made  her  almost 
cold  again.  But  she  still  protested:  "I'm  sorry! 
I  shouldn't  ever  have  blamed  you." 

"I  don't  know  who's  to  blame,"  said  the  other. 
"I  believed  in  the  best  ideals  I  could  find.  It  seems 


142      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

unfair  that  they  should  have  won  me  nothing  and 
that,  instead  of  helping  other  people,  they  should 
actually  have  done  them  harm." 

"But  at  least  they  won  you  security.  They  won 
you  time  for  study  and  work." 

"Oh,  security!"  sighed  the  woman.  "I  have 
plenty  of  security  here!" 

And  again  the  girl  felt  uneasy.  She  changed  the 
subject  abruptly:  "I  don't  suppose  you  can  tell  me 
how  to  find  my  mother." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  the  teacher.  "You'll  just 
have  to  wander  around.  But  I  shouldn't  worry 
about  it.  ...  You  have  all  eternity  before  you," 
she  ended,  with  a  sad  smile. 

So  Emily  set  out  again  in  that  faded  unreal  world. 
She  asked  almost  everybody  she  met  if  he  knew 
where  her  mother  was.  Most  of  them  simply  shook 
their  heads  and  did  not  even  stop  to  talk  to  her;  a 
few  of  them  remembered  having  seen  her  mother, 
but  could  not  tell  how  long  ago,  because  there  was 
no  day  or  night  in  Hades  and  consequently  no  way 
to  tell  time;  it  was  equally  impossible  to  give  direc 
tions  for  reaching  any  particular  place,  because  the 
ground  was  perfectly  bare  and  there  was  nothing 
above  it  but  the  shadows,  which  kept  imperceptibly 
shifting  and  melting  into  one  another. 

But  at  last  she  came  upon  a  group  of  women  sit 
ting  in  a  sort  of  circle.  She  recognized  her  mother 
at  once,  though  she  was  approaching  her  from  be 
hind,  by  the  little  hard  knob  of  black  hair  which  she 


Emily  in  Hades  143 

wore  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  always  felt 
that  this  knob  was  depressingly  old-fashioned  and 
had  often  wondered  why  her  mother  had  imitated 
her  grandmother  in  this,  brushing  her  thin  hair 
straight  back  and  parting  it  in  the  middle. 

The  other  women,  she  now  saw,  were  her  grand 
mother  and  her  aunts.  She  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
circle  and  sent  them  an  eager  "Hello!" 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  Emily!"  said  Aunt  Mollie,  with 
a  benign  and  fatuous  smile.  "I  always  said  Emily 
would  come. — All  things  come  to  him  who  waits !" 
she  added  with  another  smile. 

Her  mother  raised  solemnly  upon  Emily  her  large 
and  gentle  eyes,  in  which  was  neither  happiness  nor 
sorrow,  but  only  a  prosaic  seriousness  and  a  mild 
sort  of  wonder.  Her  long  preoccupation  in  life 
with  kitchens  and  house-work  and  furniture  and  the 
more  physical  aspects  of  the  care  of  her  husband  and 
children  had  invested  her  with  the  soulless  dignity  of 
a  plain  mahogany  bed;  and,  now  that  she  had  come 
to  Hades,  where  there  was  nothing  more  for  her  to 
do,  she  seemed  ready  to  sit  through  eternity,  as  if 
she  were  a  chest  of  drawers,  content  in  the  convic 
tion  of  her  usefulness  and  the  sense  of  her  duties 
discharged. 

"Why,  Emily!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  expect 
you  so  soon." 

"Well,  here  I  am,"  said  Emily. 

"What  did  you  die  of,  dear?" 

"Influenza." 


144      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"What  a  pity!"  sighed  Emily's  mother.  "And 
you  married  so  well,  too." 

People  felt  no  grief,  it  seemed,  in  Hades,  that 
other  people  should  be  dead;  they  merely  took  it 
for  granted;  every  one  died  sooner  or  later.  Even 
her  mother,  whose  expression  of  regret  was  the  first 
she  had  heard,  seemed  to  take  her  daughter's  early 
death  with  a  disconcerting  calmness. 

uHow  is  Fred?"  her  mother  went  on. 

"Very  well,  the  last  I  heard." 

"How  is  the  baby?" 

"All  right." 

"You  haven't  had  a  baby  yourself,  have  you, 
Emily?" 

"No." 

"Is  Marjorie  all  right?" 

"Yes:  I  think  so." 

"Well,"  her  mother  concluded,  "It's  nice  to  have 
you  here.  You  can  just  sit  around  with  us  here  and 
after  awhile  the  others  will  be  along  and  then  we'll 
all  be  together." 

"But  what  should  I  do  here?"  demanded  Emily, 
flashing  with  resentment  again.  "I  don't  see  that 
there's  anything  very  interesting  about  what  you're 
doing!" 

"It's  a  nice  long  rest,"  said  her  mother. 

"Nothing's  very  interesting  down  here,"  put  in 
her  Aunt  Elmira. 

"I  don't  care,"  observed  Aunt  Mollie.     "What  I 


Emily  in  Hades  145 

always  say  is  they  can  say  what  they  please,  but  1 
believe  there's  a  God.  It'll  all  come  out  all  right 
in  the  end;  now  you  wait  and  see  if  it  doesn't." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  stay  with  you  here !"  cried 
Emily,  who  had  never  liked  Aunt  Mollie.  "You 
kept  me  with  you  all  my  life.  You  tried  to  make 
me  think  that  our  little  family  was  the  whole  world. 
— I  never  went  anywhere  and  I  never  found  out  any 
thing.  You  made  me  believe  that  all  I  had  to  do 
to  be  desirable  for  some  one  to  marry  was  not  to  do 
certain  things — not  to  be  'unladylike.'  I  remember 
that,  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  you  warned  me  just  as 
impressively  as  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  Command 
ments  that  I  must  never  look  into  a  barber  shop 
when  I  was  passing  by  in  the  street.  You  never  let 
me  know  what  marriage  was  and  let  me  get  married 
without  knowing.  You  only  wept  at  the  wedding 
and  told  me  it  was  all  very  solemn — till  I  felt  as  if 
getting  married  must  be  some  kind  of  catastrophe  !" 

"Why,  Emily,"  answered  her  mother,  "how  can 
you  talk  like  that?  If  you  had  been  brought  up  the 
way  I  was,  you  wouldn't  think  I  was  so  strict. 
Why,  my  father  wouldn't  let  us  read  the  newspapers 
or  play  games  on  Sunday  or  anything.  And  he 
wouldn't  let  us  go  to  dances,  because  he  thought 
dancing  was  wicked.  In  West  Beachley  there 
weren't  any  of  those  Saturday  night  parties  that  last 
till  Sunday  morning.  We  had  to  toe  the  mark,  I 
can  tell  you,  in  my  day. — Why,  at  Norwood,  I  used 


146      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

to    let   you    children    do    practically    anything   you 
wanted  to — anything  decent  and  respectable,  that 


is." 


And  Emily  realized  fully  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  that  to  her  mother  the  change  from  West  Beach- 
ley  to  Norwood  had  been  as  much  a  rise  and  libera 
tion  as  the  change  from  Norwood  to  New  York  had 
been  to  Emily  herself.  When  her  mother  had  mar 
ried  the  General  Manager  of  the  Norwood  Woolen 
Mills,  she  had  found  herself  in  a  world  so  much 
richer  and  freer  than  the  one  she  had  left  behind 
that  she  had  never  thought  to  look  further,  but,  in 
satisfaction  and  assurance,  had  lived  and  died  among 
its  standards. 

"I'm  sorry,  mother,"  said  Emily.  "Never  mind. 
I  shouldn't  have  tried  to  blame  you.  But  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  stay  with  you  here.  I  want  to  look  up  some 
other  people  in  a  minute. — I'll  be  back  to  see  you 
later."  And,  after  talking  with  them  a  little — 
in  order  not  to  seem  too  abrupt — she  left  them  with 
phantom  kisses  and  lost  herself  again  in  the  grey. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could  find  some  one  young,"  she 
thought,  "some  one  I  really  like !" 

Then  suddenly,  a  moment  afterwards,  like  a  god 
appearing  in  a  mist,  a  naked  young  man  came  to 
wards  her,  who  looked  in  her  face  and  cried  out,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  almost  alive:  "Why,  Emily! 
What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
just  died." 


Emily  in  Hades  147 

"You've  come  to  a  pretty  sad  place,"  he  replied, 
with  a  sorrowful  smile. 

"Is  it  so  depressing  then?" 

"There  isn't  very  much  doing.  You  get  kind  of 
stale  after  while/' 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "Isn't  there  any  music 
here?" 

"I  haven't  heard  any,"  he  replied. 

In  a  second,  she  had  changed  the  subject:  "It 
was  terrible  about  your  death.  I  cried  about  it  for 
days." 

"Well,  it  was  darn  nice  of  you  to  be  sorry,"  he 
said,,  "but  you  shouldn't  have  let  it  worry  you.  I 
guess  it  really  doesn't  make  much  difference." 

"We  were  all  so  proud,  though,  that  you  were 
killed  at  St.  Mihiel!" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  the  death  notice  said, 
but  I  was  'way  behind  the  lines.  I  was  an  M.  P. 
and  had  to  go  around  and  drive  'em  out  of  the  cafes 
at  half  past  nine;  and  one  night  some  dirty  wop  hid 
up  an  alley  and  shot  me." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!"  she  cried. 

As  he  spoke,  he  had  tapped  his  left  breast,  where 
she  saw  a  black  bullet  wound. — And  she  also  saw 
what  she  had  hardly  dared  to  let  herself  notice  be 
fore:  that,  in  his  nakedness,  he  was  very  hand 
some.  As  she  had  known  him  in  life,  his  clothes 
had  not  been  particularly  neat  and  she  was  surprised 
now  at  the  clear  outline  and  ordered  economy  of  his 
body.  Instead  of  being  like  her  husband,  with  most 


148      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

of  his  muscles  invisible,  she  could  see  them  move, 
smoothly  and  easily,  as  he  shifted  his  position. 
Though  she  had  always  been  attracted  by  him  in 
life  and  tremendously  excited  when  he  had  called 
upon  her,  she  found  it  almost  incredible  now  that 
anybody  so  beautiful  could  have  lived  in  a  city  like 
Norwood  and  gone  about  its  commonplace  business. 
And  she  observed  that  even  his  feet,  instead  of  be 
ing  great  slabs  of  flesh,  were  high-arched  and  square- 
toed  and  no  longer  or  wider  than  they  should  be. 

He  was  not  embarrassed  by  his  nakedness  and 
made  no  comment  upon  it — though  she  herself  had 
been  abashed  at  meeting  him  without  his  clothes — 
but  stood  with  an  unperturbed  dignity  and  a  cool 
unconscious  grace,  moving  his  arms  occasionally  as 
he  talked,  in  the  artless  and  homely  gestures  of  the 
undistinguished  American. 

uTell  me,"  she  went  on,  playing  the  game  of  mak 
ing  conversation,  as  she  had  always  done  with  him  in 
life,  "what  do  the  soldiers  who  are  dead  think  about 
the  war,  now  that  it's  over?  Do  they  think  it  was 
all  worth  while  or  do  they  think  they  'died  in  vain'  ? 
Some  people  are  saying  one  thing  and  some  people 
the  other." 

4 They  never  think  about  it  at  all.  It  was  all  so 
bum,  why  should  they?  You  see,  about  the  only 
thing  you  can  do  to  amuse  yourself  in  Hades  is  to 
remember  the  pleasant  things  that  happened  to  you 
when  you  were  alive.  So  they  have  practically  for 
gotten  the  war.  ...  I  know  how  I  felt  about  it 


Emily  in  Hades  149 

when  I  first  arrived  down  here:  I  ripped  my  darn 
uniform  off  and  pitched  it  in  the  lake." 

uBut  doesn't  anybody  object  to  your  not  wearing 
any  clothes?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile  which  she  felt 
was  daring. 

"No:  nobody  objects  to  anything  down  here." 
And  he  added,  after  a  pause :  "Why  don't  you  take 
your  nightgown  off?  Nobody  cares." 

It  was  her  turn  to  pause  now.  "I  suppose  I 
might,"  she  said  at  last.  "This  isn't  much  of  a 
thing  to  go  around  in,  is  it?"  And  she  took  the 
nightgown  off  self-consciously,  pulling  it  over  her 
head,  and  stood  before  him  in  her  slender  beauty, 
with  her  thin  boy-like  thighs  and  her  breasts  that 
hung  like  rain-drops  on  a  pane,  and  the  low-swelling 
rondure  between  them  that  had  never  borne  a  child. 

"You  certainly  are  pretty!"  he  said,  as  she  stood 
not  quite  knowing  what  to  do,  and  then  came  over 
to  her  and  first  took  her  hands  in  his  and  then  put 
his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

But  she  could  not  feel  his  body  against  hers  nor 
the  pressure  of  his  lips;  she  did  not  grow  hot  nor 
tremble  at  the  touch  of  his  lover's  hands.  When 
she  shut  her  eyes  beneath  his  kiss,  it  was  as  if  there 
were  no  one  there,  and  she  had  to  open  them  upon 
him  to  take  pleasure  in  his  presence. 

And  presently  he  relinquished  his  embrace  and 
stood  awkwardly,  in  silence,  keeping  only  her  hands. 
"It's  too  bad,"  he  said  at  length,  "that  I  never  made 
love  to  you.  in  life." 


ISO      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"Why  didn't  you?"  she  asked.  "You  should 
have.  I  wanted  you  to." 

"Did  you  really?"  he  replied,  and  stood  staring 
at  the  ground  a  moment  "I  was  too  chivalrous," 
he  went  on.  "I  was  idealistic  about  things  like  that. 
I  couldn't  have  married  you  then  and  I  thought  I 
oughtn't  to  make  love  to  you.  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  want  me  to,  if  I  didn't  ask  you  to  marry 
me;  and  that,  even  if  you  were  willing  to  let  nve,  it 
wouldn't  be  exactly  honourable.  But  I  know  now 
I  made  a  mistake.  That  kind  of  chivalry's  all 
bunk:  I  found  that  out  in  France." 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  me  in  France?"  she  asked, 
and  he  answered:  "Yes,  I  surely  did" — but  w"ith 
so  little  of  the  lover's  enthusiasm  that  she  felt  quite 
sure  the  French  women  must  have  driven  her  out 
of  his  head. 

"I  thought  of  you,  too,"  she  said.  "I  missed  you 
a  lot." 

"It's  too  bad,"  he  protested  again.  "It's  too 
bad."  Then,  "Let's  sit  down  here  together,"  he 
invited.  "There's  no  place  to  go." 

So  they  sat  down  together  on  the  ground  and  he 
put  his  arm  about  her  body.  But  she  was  thinking 
how  vivacious  and  attractive  the  French  women  must 
be.  She  felt  charmless  and  pale,  as  she  imagined 
them,  and  it  filled  her  with  a  strange  distress.  She 
would  like  so  much  to  be  like  them,  if  she  only  had 
the  chance ! 

And  then  she  realized  suddenly  that  she  would 


Emily  in  Hades  151 

never  have  the  chance — that  she  was  nothing  but 
a  poor  ghost,  a  bodiless,  passionless  shadow !  She 
had  told  herself  up  to  now  that  the  languid  people 
she  had  met  were  all  old  and  stupid  people,  who 
were  dead  things  before  they  died.  But,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  this  young  man,  who  might  once  have 
thrilled  her  with  his  touch,  but  who  stirred  her  less 
now  than  a  lover  she  might  merely  have  imagined 
when  alive,  she  knew  with  sickening  despair  and  sud 
den  terrible  grief,  that  she  was  only  a  shadow  her 
self,  that  her  flesh  would  never  live  again,  that  she 
must  walk  among  indifferent  wraiths  till  she  became 
as  indifferent  as  they — a  wisp  of  spirit  lost  for  ever 
in  a  world  of  twilight  and  mists. 

They  sat  on  together  in  silence;  their  love  scene 
seemed  to  go  blank.  A  listlessness  had  absorbed 
him  and  he  sat  staring  blindly  at  her  hand,  which  he 
could  not  press  with  his  own.  A  fear  and  a  shame 
possessed  her  and  an  anger  which  wept  without 
tears.  She  must  be  alone,  she  felt;  she  must  rouse 
herself  and  escape. 

She  brusquely  got  to  her  feet.  "I  want  to  go 
on,"  she  said.  "I'll  see  you  again  very  soon." 

"Hey,  don't  go,  Emily!"  he  cried. — But,  for 
dread  of  having  him  tell  her  it  was  useless,  she 
broke  away  and  plunged  among  the  shadows. 

His  numbness  seemed  still  to  hold  him,  for  he 
had  not  risen  from  the*  ground.  .  .  . 

She  came  at  last  to  the  shore,  which  seemed  al 
most  picturesque  now,  after  the  grey  monotony  of 


152      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

the  interior.  Not  far  away,  she  saw  Charon  un 
loading  another  newcomer,  a  tall  rather  fine-looking 
man  with  a  clerical  collar,  who  gazed  about  him  in 
a  puzzled  way  and  then  came  up  the  beach. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  can  you  tell 
me  whether  this  is  Heaven  or  Hell?" 

"It's  neither,"  she  replied.  It's  what  they  call 
Hades." 

'That  is  strange,"  he  remarked  thoughtfully, 
bending  troubled  brows  a  moment.  "This  must  be 
a  dream." 

"Oh,  no!  It's  not  a  dream,"  she  said  bitterly. 
"You're  really  dead." 

"And  what  does  one  do  here?"  he  inquired,  rais 
ing  shy  and  honest  eyes  to  hers. 

"Not  much  of  anything,  as  far  as  I  can  see!"  she 
answered  in  her  anger  and  chagrin,  and  then,  as  she 
saw  that  he  was  hurt  by  this  harsh  and  abrupt  dis 
illusionment,  she  was  sorry  for  him  and  added,  to 
soften  the  shock  a  little:  "If  you  go  further  back 
from  the  shore,  you'll  find  the  people  you  know." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  he  replied,  and  walked 
slowly  up  toward  the  shadows. 

Terror  shrouded  her  heart;  she  was  sickened  by 
the  realization  that  the  answer  she  had  just  given 
the  clergyman  was  horribly  like  the  answers  she  had 
received  when  she  first  arrived  in  Hades.  She 
had  come  just  like  that  poor  man,  with  hopes  and 
interests  and  desires;  and  now,  in  so  short  a  time,  her 
attitude  toward  him  was  exactly  like  theirs  toward 


Emily  in  Hades  153 

her:  morose,  indifferent  to  others,  unwilling  to  be 
questioned  at  all — because  it  reminded  one  too 
sharply  of  one's  own  first  blank  failures  and  wounds. 

She  suddenly  ran  down  to  Charon,  who  was  just 
pulling  off  from  the  shore. 

"Oh,  won't  you  take  me  away  from  here,  please?" 
she  cried.  "Take  me  to  some  other  country — 
somewhere  where  the  people  are  different!  I  want 
to  see  people  entirely  different  from  these  people 
here!  There  must  be  millions  of  people  more  in 
teresting  than  these — people  who  lived  in  Europe 
hundreds  of  years  ago."  (She  was  thinking  of  the 
picturesque  figures  in  historical  romances.)  "I've 
never  been  to  Europe  in  my  life.  Won't  you  take 
me  where  the  Europeans  are?" 

"All  right.  Get  in,"  assented  Charon.  "But 
you'll  find  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  in  the 
long  run." 

She  stretched  herself  on  her  back,  to  think,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  stared  up  at  the  desert  of 
sky,  which  was  everywhere  the  same.  There  was  no 
play  of  shadows  here,  but  a  topless  height  of  space. 
It  must  be  infinity,  she  thought.  One  looked  up  and 
lost  oneself  in  deep  unvaulted  distances,  where  there 
were  no  sun  and  no  stars  for  the  homeless  eye  to 
cling  to  and  for  the  imagination  to  accept  as  a  sort  of 
ceiling  for  the  world.  And  there  was  no  air  to  col 
our  space  with  comfortable  layers  of  blue;  the  abyss 
was  perfectly  colourless,  at  once  limpid  and  dim.  It 
was  infinity,  it  was  nothing;  it  affronted  and  terri- 


154      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

fied  the  soul.  One  was  drowned  in  it  as  one  looked; 
one  was  choked,  like  a  fish  out  of  the  water,  filled 
to  bursting  with  that  vast  negation,  which  one  could 
neither  breathe  nor  feel. 

She  turned  away  swimming  eyes  and  watched  the 
passing  of  the  shore.  So  exactly  alike  was  every  part 
to  every  other  part  that  she  would  not  have  known 
they  were  moving  at  all,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
furrows  which  streaked  the  dim  water  faintly  in 
lines  that  flickered  a  little.  And  as  she  watched  for 
uncounted  hours  the  interminable  ribbon  of  the  land 
lying  low  and  narrow  and  dark  beneath  its  burden  of 
shadows,  the  passionate  impulse  to  revolt,  the  fierce 
demand  for  life  and  colour,  all  the  shuddering  intol 
erable  anguish  of  her  baffled  and  breaking  heart 
seemed  to  melt  away  in  the  air,  as  if  it  were  ab 
sorbed  by  space,  seemed  to  fade  and  dull  and  go  to 
sleep,  leaving  listless  vacuity  behind  them,  like  high 
resolutions  forgotten  in  the  heat  of  a  summer 
day.  .  .  . 

At  last,  they  turned  in  toward  the  shore.  She 
gazed  languidly  before  her.  What  she  saw  did  not 
differ  at  all  from  the  shore  they  had  just  left  be 
hind  and  she  contemplated  it  without  thought,  un 
mindful  of  what  she  had  come  for.  .  .  . 

Charon  roused  her  when  they  were  beached. 
"You  can  get  out  now,"  he  said. 

She  summoned  her  attention  with  an  effort  and 
climbed  down  out  of  the  boat.  A  little  of  her  hope 
returned;  she  felt  a  faint  echo  of  excitement. 


Emily  in  Hades  155 

"Are  the  people  really  different  here?" 

"Yes:  they're  different,"  said  the  old  man;  and 
he  put  out  to  sea  again. 

And  again  she  confronted  the  barren  shore,  with 
its  blurred  forest  of  shadows.  .  .  . 

A  figure  stood  before  her,  a  figure  in  a  long  gown. 
She  could  not  tell  at  first  whether  it  was  a  woman  or 
a  man,  but,  when  she  had  come  quite  close,  she  saw 
that  it  was  a  man,  who  wore  his  hair  rather  long 
and  dressed  in  high  stockings,  like  tights.  His  com 
plexion  was  very  dark  and  his  eyes  were  so  large  and 
black  that,  with  no  light  to  make  them  shine,  they 
looked  like  great  oval  pits  sunk  deep  beneath  his 
brows. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  "but  can  you  tell 
me  where  I  am?" 

"This  is  Greece,"  the  man  replied, — "Greece  of 
the  Vllth  century  before  Christ."  He  spoke  with 
a  curious  accent. 

"And  are  you  a  Greek?"  she  inquired. 

"No:  I  am  an  Italian,"  he  answered,  " — an  Ital 
ian  of  the  XVIth  century.  I  am  a  stranger  here 
like  yourself."  He  smiled  a  little  as  he  spoke  and 
she  felt  that  she  was  going  to  like  him.  He  had  not 
the  hangdog  look  of  the  Americans  she  had  met, 
but  held  himself  even  in  Hades  with  a  certain  dig 
nity  and  pride. 

"I  am  an  American,"  she  explained,  "but  I  don't 
want  to  stay  with  the  Americans." 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  he  asked. 


156      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  replied.  "More  life, 
I  suppose." 

"Don't  you  know  there  is  no  life  here?"  he  said 
gently.  "You  must  not  look  for  life  here." 

"I  want  a  different  kind  of  people  then,"  she  got 
out,  feeling  helpless  and  foolish. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  "I  know  ...  I  wanted  a 
different  kind  of  people,  too,  when  I  first  came  down 
to  Hades.  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  Greece 
that  was  dead  and  I  thought  my  own  time  a  bar 
barous  one.  Now,  the  people  of  your  age,  I  am 
told,  think  my  own  century  very  beautiful." 

"And  is  that  the  reason  you  came  here?" 

"That  was  a  part  of  the  reason.  But  it  was  not 
only  Greece  I  loved." 

"Oh,  tell  me  what  love  was  like,"  she  begged, 
"when  you  were  alive.  That's  what  I  want  to  hear 
so  much.  Please  tell  me  what  love  was  like  then !" 

He  smiled  again.  "Did  you  think  that  love  was 
more  perfect  then  than  now?  Did  you  think  I 
should  tell  you  some  wonderful  tale  of  desire  ful 
filled  and  still  kept?  Ah,  never  since  Daphne 
turned  to  laurel  was  desire  so  little  satisfied  as  mine. 
For  even  the  nuns  who  espouse  Jesus  Christ  have 
their  husband  after  a  fashion;  and  even  Dante  pos 
sessed  Beatrice  by  believing  it  was  her  spirit  he  wor 
shipped  and  by  recreating  that  spirit  himself  more 
noble  than  it  ever  really  was.  But  for  me  there 
was  no  mystic  union  and  no  high  exaltation  of  the 


Emily  in  Hades  157 

soul.  I  had  nothing  but  torture  and  burning  thirst 
and  intolerable  longing ! 

"I  was  a  poet  and  scholar  on  earth — a  scholar 
who  knew  Greek.  That  was  a  rare  thing  in  my 
time,  because  Greek  had  been  buried  for  centuries. 
When  we  first  read  Plato  and  Homer,  our  minds 
seemed  flooded  with  the  sun.  We  rode  through  the 
country  to  rescue  Greek  from  the  ignorance  of  the 
monasteries,  as  our  ancestors  had  ridden  to  save  Pal 
estine  from  the  hands  of  the  unbeliever.  I  rode  in 
the  service  of  Apollo;  but  Apollo  destroys  his  ser 
vants.  For  one  day  I  found  the  poems  of  Sappho  in 
the  filthy  refectory  of  a  monastery.  It  was  a  greasy 
and  worm-eaten  volume  wounded  with  great  holes 
and  stains,  and  scrawled  by  the  swinish  monks  with 
caricatures  and  accounts.  But  to  me  it  was  as  if  a 
goddess  had  been  lifted  again  from  the  earth, 
not  merely  in  the  coldness  of  marble,  dull  and  silent 
and  stiff,  but  moving  in  divine  beauty,  with  divine 
music  on  her  lips.  For  we  had  thought  Sappho 
lost  forever,  when  our  barbarous  ancestors  burned 
her  poems. 

"With  the  scholar's  jealous  greed,  I  told  no  one 
what  I  had  found.  There  were  better  scholars  than 
I;  I  could  not  have  borne  to  have  them  read  it 
sooner.  With  the  little  Greek  that  I  knew  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  dialect,  (though  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  ^Eolian  forms  did  but  make  them  darker 
and  richer),  it  was  more  than  two  years  before  the 


158      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

poems  had  dropped  their  masks  for  my  eyes.  But 
when  I  had  forced  the  forest  of  the  text,  all  bristling 
and  tangled  to  the  eye,  to  give  up  the  beauty  it  con 
cealed,  I  was  straightway  an  adorer  and  slave ! — It 
was  a  woman  shaken  by  passion,  yet  with  the  cold 
intelligence  of  a  man,  an  artist  controlling  her  ter 
rible  cries  with  the  subtle  conscience  of  a  critic. 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  woman? —  a  woman  with 
passion  and  reason,  and  a  supreme  poet  as  well!  I 
loved  her  as  I  had  never  loved  any  real  living 
woman,  yet  she  troubled  and  tortured  my  soul. 
Not  only  was  I  troubled  as  all  men  are  troubled  by 
women  who  choose  women  for  lovers,  but  I  was 
driven  mad  to  realize  that  no  lover,  either  woman 
or  man,  could  ever  quench  her  fierce  longing  or  cure 
her  noble  chagrin. — Here  was  a  woman  whom  no 
lover  could  satisfy,  who  could  never  find  love  final. 
She  gave  herself  up  to  beauty  with  a  passion  that 
never  scrupled;  but  at  the  end  there  was  always  bit 
terness  :  love  lasted  such  a  little  while ;  it  was  not  she 
who  did  not  want  to  keep  it.  It  was  not  she  who 
slew  it  so  soon;  she  grieved  its  death  as  much  as  any. 

The   Cadence   "Hpa/wiv  ^tev  eya>  crtOev,   " Ar^  TraAai  Trora' 

— 'Once  did  I  love  thee,  Atthis,  long  ago' — de 
stroyed  my  soul  with  its  beauty  and  its  cruel  definite- 
ness. — I  shuddered  with  the  fear  that,  even  had  I 
lived  in  Lesbos,  I  could  never  really  have  possessed 
her. 

"I  shut  myself  up  from  the  common  world.     I  no 
longer  cared  for  my  friends :  however  brilliant  they 


Emily  in  Hades  159 

might  be,  they  had  not  Sappho's  passion;  and  still 
less  could  I  bear  common  women :  however  beautiful 
or  eager,  they  appeared  to  me  now  in  my  madness 
like  gross,  less  than  human  creatures;  beside  this 
half-male  woman,  they  were  hardly  women  at  all; 
the  smoothness  and  roundness  of  their  bodies,  which 
had  once  consumed  me  with  delight,  had  now  no 
more  magic  for  me  than  the  smoothness  and  round 
ness  of  worms. — At  last,  I  could  neither  sleep  nor 
work.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  Sappho.  All 
day  and  all  night  the  music  of  her  poems  sounded 
exquisitely  through  my  mind  and  every  lift  and  fall 
of  its  beauty  gave  me  exquisite  pain.  I  stumbled 
about  my  business,  leaving  everything  unfinished;  I 
would  suddenly  stop,  like  a  madman,  in  the  midst 
of  what  I  was  doing,  and  stand  dazed  and  unseeing 
for  hours,  crucified  by  that  strange  jealousy.  Till, 
at  last  one  day,  insane,  in  a  rage  against  the  cruel 
beauty  which  had  robbed  me  of  my  own  life  and  for 
bidden  me  to  live  in  hers,  I  burned  all  my  copies  of 
the  poems,  that  men  might  never  suffer  by  them,  and 
then,  taking  ship  for  the  East,  threw  my  body  into 
the  sea — and  desire  ceased  with  my  breath.".  .  . 
But  to  Emily  the  story  seemed  fantastic  and  un 
intelligible.  He  was  interested  in  his  life,  it  was 
true;  which  none  of  the  Americans  had  been;  though 
he  had  been  dead  for  hundreds  of  years  before  they 
were  born.  But  all  this  passion  about  a  book !  She 
thought  that  he  must  be  mad;  he  had  said  some 
thing  about  madness  in  his  story. — And,  besides,  her 


160      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

attention  had  flagged;  she  was  deadened  by  languor 
again;  and  the  passionate  language  he  spoke 
was  one  she  had  never  learned.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  come  here  to  see  Sappho?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     I  have  been  here  ever  since  I  died." 

"I  should  like  to  see  her,  too,"  she  said,  though, 
now  that  she  was  back  in  history,  she  found  that  it 
interested  her  less  than  she  had  thought  it  would. 

"You  must  let  me  take  you  to  her,"  he  answered, 
and  led  her  up  towards  the  shadows. 

"But  how  can  I  talk  to  her  ?"  asked  Emily.  "She 
can't  understand  English,  can  she?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  scholar,  "she  has  learned  it." 

"But  do  people  learn  things  down  here?  The 
Americans  I  saw  back  there  weren't  learning  or  do 
ing  anything." 

"It  depends  on  one's  interest  in  life,"  he  explained. 

"If  one's  love  for  it  is  strong  enough,  one  goes  on 
being  interested  for  a  while;  but  in  the  end  one's  in 
terest  always  flags  and  finally  dissolves  altogether. 
When  I  first  came  to  Hades,  for  example,  I  was 
eager  to  learn  Greek  from  the  Greeks  and  I  studied 
it  here  for  a  while;  but  now  I  do  not  trouble  any 
longer.  Even  Sappho,  whose  thirsty  mind  went  on 
drinking  knowledge  for  ages,  has  ceased  to  be  thirsty 
at  last." 

"And  does  everything  fade  then?  Does  nothing 
remain  in  Hades?" 

"Only  beauty,"  he  replied,  "the  memory  of 
beauty.".  .  . 


Emily  in  Hades  161 

But  she  did  not  understand.  Walking  passively 
at  his  side,  she  felt  that  historical  people  were  liter 
ary  and  dull.  No  doubt  Sappho  was  a  "highbrow," 
too.  .  .  . 

And  at  last  they  came  to  a  woman  sitting  naked 
on  the  ground.  She  was  not  beautiful  with  the 
classic  exactness  which  Emily  had  seen  in  pictures 
of  her.  Indeed,  her  features  in  themselves  were 
plain — except  for  the  large  dark  eyes;  the  nose 
was  much  too  prominent,  with  nostrils  very  large, 
and  the  mouth  was  wide,  like  a  man's.  But  her 
proud  body  was  so  beautiful  that  it  terrified  Emily 
a  little;  the  breasts  were  neither  flabby  nor  flat,  like 
the  breasts  of  many  women  she  had  seen,  and  she 
bore  them  with  the  same  dignity  and  grace  as  she 
held  her  alert  little  head;  and  the  legs,  which  were 
folded  beneath  her,  were  very  smooth  and  strong. 
And,  though  now  but  the  surface  of  a  shadow,  with 
out  blood  or  freshness  or  light,  her  dark  skin  seemed 
even  in  Hades  to  glow  with  a  kind  of  lustre,  that 
showed  sharply  against  the  dimness,  almost  with  the 
brightness  of  flesh. 

As  she  gazed  at  this  figure — as  little  self-con 
scious,  as  little  soft  as  a  man's — Emily  felt  herself 
terribly  ashamed  of  her  own  meagre  body  and 
wished  that  she  had  not  left  her  night-gown.  How 
thin,  how  wretched  she  appeared!  What  a  bony 
little  scarecrow  of  a  creature !  She  wished  she  had 
never  come;  it  was  scarcely  worth  the  discomfort. 
She  wanted  now  only  to  get  away,  to  be  somewhere 


1 62       The  Undertaker's  Garland 

by  herself,  where  she  could  forget  all  these  ghastly 
meetings,  where  she  would  never  have  to  think  about 
anything!  Everything  in  life  was  like  that;  she  de 
sired  now  only  to  resign  herself. 

But  the  woman  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  quick 
and  inquiring  interest.  Emily  had  seen  nothing  so 
vivid  in  Hades. 

"This  is  a  little  Amerian  girl  who  has  come  a  long 
way  to  see  you,"  the  scholar  began  to  explain. 

Something  in  that  strange  plain  face,  so  dark 
ened  with  a  knowledge  and  passion  which  were  un 
familiar  to  Emily  and  which  troubled  and  frightened 
her  a  little,  but  so  beautiful  even  in  its  phantom 
from  the  hot  intensity  of  the  spirit,  which  still 
smouldered  and  brooded  in  Hades,  like  an  inextin 
guishable  flame,  moved  Emily  to  burst  out  abruptly, 
in  a  violent  unsteady  voice,  with  all  that  was  left  of 
her  rebellion  and  her  desperate  chagrin: 

"Oh,  you  have  known  love,"  she  cried.  "Tell  me : 
why  have  I  never  known  love?  All  my  life  I  have 
waited  for  it,  but  it  was  never  love  that  came  to  me. 
Must  I  wait  forever  down  here,  without  even  the 
hope  of  knowing  it?  Am  I  incapable  of  love? 
Who  is  it  who  has  robbed  me  of  it?  Did  people  live 
so  very  differently,  then,  when  you  were  on  earth? 
Were  there  young  girls  then  as  free  and  brave  and 
as  beautiful  as  you  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me !  What  must 
I  do  to  become  as  you  were  then?  What  dreams 
did  you  let  yourselves  dream?  What  thoughts  of 
men  did  you  think?  Was  there  once  another  sort 


Emily  in  Hades  163 

of  love  less  clumsy  and  unkind  than  now?  Is  love 
cooling  off  like  the  sun?  Did  it  die  with  the  an 
cient  world?" 

The  woman's  face  seemed  to  darken,  almost  as 
if  it  were  flushing.  But  she  did  not  speak  for  a 
moment.  And  Emily,  abashed  at  her  speech, 
dropped  piteous  eyes  to  the  ground;  they  fell  upon 
a  kind  of  harp,  with  graceful  lines  like  a  vase. 
For  a  moment,  a  spring  of  hope  and  relief  was 
opened  in  her  heart,  as  it  occurred  to  her  that  here 
at  last  she  was  perhaps  going  to  listen  to  the  music 
she  had  waited  for  all  her  life. 

"Do  you  play  on  this?"  she  asked  shyly. 

"No,"  said  Sappho,  "my  lyre  is  broken." 

And  then  Emily  noticed  that,  indeed,  the  strings 
were  twisted  like  tendrils  on  the  shafts  of  the  nar 
row  frame. 

She  looked  up  in  disappointment  and  saw  that  the 
woman  was  weeping. 

"Oh,  don't  cry  on  my  account!"  she  exclaimed,  "I 
really  don't  mind  being  dead!" 

"It  is  not  because  you  are  dead  that  I  am  weep 
ing,"  she  replied,  and  then  drew  Emily  down  with 
beautiful  shadowy  arms  whose  embrace  she  could 
not  feel.  "Sit  down  beside  me  here,"  she  said.  "I 
wish  that  I  could  help  you,  my  poor  child.  But  I 
cannot  help  you  now!" 


The  Death  of  God 

My  spirit  is  a  bow  unstrung, 
My  strength  is  as  a  twisted  pod, 
Yet  I  remember,  once,  a  young 
Exultant,  wind-flushed,  passionate  god — 
Who  fled  down  the  green  colourless  wave, 
Burning  the  silence  with  a  glittering  scale, 
Yet  found  no  coral  and  no  sea's  floor; 
Who  plunged  and  soared  and  poised,  but  gave 
Care  to  no  thought  but  that  his  flail 
Threshed  a  gold  sheaf  on  an  idle  floor; 
Who  knew  not  whence  he  came,  nor  cared 
While  there  remained  that  opening  door 
And  a  cloudy  flight  of  palaces,  staired 
With  mirrors,  fragments  of  a  separate  sun. 
Ages  were  woven  and  woven,  unspun, 
Before  the  delight  of  winnowed  hair, 
Of  diving  sheer  from  the  whirlwind's  brim, 
Of  feeling  the  runnels  of  space  on  bare 
Unwearied  limbs  could  weary  him. 
But  slowly  a  questionless  vast  despair 
Hooded  his  brain;  on  his  heart  an  ache 
Knocked  like  a  sword  against  the  thigh. 
The  winds  were  no  longer  stiff  to  slake 
The  thirst  I  had — for  the  god  was  I ! 
Centuries  circled  past  with' a  cry 

164 


The  Death  of  God  165 

Like  baying  hounds.     At  last  I  arose 
And  plunged  into  the  burning  gyres 
Where  the  intensest  sun-slag  glows, 
And  churned  the  spindrift  till  it  whirled 
Rocketing  colours,  metallic  fires, 
Vermilion,  cobalt,  frost  and  black-rose. 
Urged  by  a  blind,  dark,  sultry  lust 
I  trampled  the  blazoned  clouds  of  dust 
Like  a  wild  stallion  in  a  pound — 
Fire  upon  dust,  dust  upon  spark — 
Till  a  huge  uncouth  unthought  of  world 
Went  toppling  blindly  down  the  dark 
With  a  hot  unwieldy  sound: 
And  wonder  was  then  like  a  sudden  wound ! 

Ages  and  ages  were  smuggled  away 

While  I  shaped  with  slowly  subtle  hand 

A  universe  I  had  not  planned: 

Suns  of  inviolate  sapphire  burning 

With  stars  to  circle  upon  their  light, 

Choruses  to  one  high  voice  returning; 

Suns  of  amber  and  bluish  light, 

Shaken  like  dew  on  the  boughs  of  night; 

Comets  with   fluttering  fetlocks   and  long  tossing 

manes, 

Plunging  in  triumph  against  their  stiff  reins, 
Thudding  a  dust  of  white  fire  from  their  hoofs; 
And  the  stars  that  have  stars  for  company 
When  they  sit  at  feast  under  heaven's  roofs 
And  utter  a  sweet  articulate  cry. 


166      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Then  out  of  a  white  wind  wandering  came 

Lovely  spirits  nimbed  in  flame 

Even  against  that  illumined  air; 

Stripling  they  moved, 

Bending  each  on  each  a  remote  stare 

From  arrogant  eyes  that  were  wise  in  love, 

Dripping  a  sun's  rain  from  smooth  thighs 

As  they  moved. 

And  some  of  them  had  strength  enough 

To    have    followed    with    speed,    unsandalled,    un- 

mewed, 

The  galloping  thunders  of  the  sun; 
And  some  wore  pointed  wings  upon 
Poised  and  tremulous  heels,  subdued — 
With  a  thin  crescent  of  lifted  wings, 
Ivory-rich  misted  with  silver — the  flame 
Which  dawned  a  rose  ardour  from  bright  hair 
Kindled  and  unbound  by  the  great  pair 
Which  from  their  shoulders  beat  or  fluttered. 
But  all  were  courteous  in  their  pride 
Save  one,  lucescent  as  his  name, 
Who,  when  he  would  have  spoken,  uttered 
A  thin  cry,  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  gazed 
Down  where  the  stars  were,  intricately  mazed 
As  gleams  of  green  phosphorus  in  the  tide; 
Crouched  in  a  glare  like  one  who  has  sent 
Thick  bloodhounds  on  his  own  son's  scent 
And  looks  into  a  network  of  winds. 
Then  gathering  to  his  feet 
He  made  as  if  his  hands  would  beat 


The  Death  of  God  167 

A  dancing  measure;  and  a  song 
Demon-sweet  and  wild  and  strong 
Made  his  face  strange — a  song  of  light 
And  colours  wheeling  in  the  light, 
Vermilion,  saffron,  blue-green  and  blue, 
And  the  blind  and  unimaginable  hue 
Which  trembles  beyond  the  terror  of  white; 
All  things  that  were  and  things  unknown: 
Blindness  of  suns  and  staggering  stars, 
The  red-brass  pomp  of  battle  cars, 
The  scraping  of  spears  against  a  throne. 
And  all  that  high  unsorrowing  throng 
Were  hid  from  each  other  by  their  tears, 
And  pressed  white  brows,  because  of  the  song 
Which  Lucifer  made  among  his  peers. 
And  I  too,  sitting  among  them  there, 
Knew  beauty's  intimate  despair, 
And  dreamed  of  a  green,  wide-islanded  star 
With  one  white  moon  to  follow  her, 
A  place  where  immortal  beauty  should  sit 
With  mortal  eyes  to  ponder  it. 

And  afterwards  I  remember,  remember, 

We  sat  like  stars  in  the  sun's  feast  chamber, 

And  I  shared  with  them  my  mind; 

And  brooding  upon  their  litheness  assigned 

Each  a  rollicking  planet  to  ride, 

A  moon  to  tame,  or  to  sit  upon 

A  huge,  unruly,  turbulent  sun. 

I  taught  them  all  my  wit  had  learned, 


i68      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

How  starry  speed  was  qualified 

By  bulk  and  distance;  why  this  one  burned 

And  that  rolled  darkling:  all  that  I  knew 

And  all  I  guessed  might  well  be  true. 

They  leapt  and  clashed  their  ivory  spears, 

And  shouted;   and  down  through   the  regions   of 

night  and  morn 

Fled  like  partridges  frightened  from  corn. 
I  turned  that  none  might  see  my  tears. 

And  after,  long  after,  I  shaped  a  star 

With  one  white  moon  to  follow  her. 

A  place  where  immortal  beauty  should  sit 

With  mortal  eyes  to  ponder  it. 

There  out  of  odour,  sound  and  colour 

I  made  those  shapes  which  seemed  to  wear 

In  the  bronze  lustre  of  that  undimmed  air 

A  beauty  elaborate  and  austere, 

Which  now  is  shadowed,  or  grown  duller 

Than  an  old  man's  wit  to  a  young  man's  ear. 

I  made  all  forms  of  greenery 
Under  the  air  or  beneath  the  sea : 
The  tree  that  like  a  fountain  soars, 
The  tree  that  like  a  cloud  downpours 
In  a  rustling  rain  of  silver  leaves; 
The  tree  whose  petals  are  gold  at  noon 
And  moonlight  coloured  in  the  moon; 
And  every  sort  of  tree  that  weaves 


The  Death  of  God  169 

A  net  of  leaves  from  limb  to  limb. 

I  made  green  beetles  smouldering  dim 

And  pheasants  fanned  to  a  golden  glare 

In  the  white  furnace  of  the  air: 

And  the  many  strange  sea-breathing  things 

Which  sprawl  in  jellies  and  coil  in  rings, 

Dripping  slow  slime  from  viscous  eyes 

Amid  the  deep  sea's  forestries. 

I  made  the  spider  obese  and  hairy 

And  taught  him  to  spin  and  thread  an  airy 

Web  of  colourless  polygons, 

And  shook  against  the  twisted  skein 

Cool  bubbles  of  translucent  dew, 

Violet-gold,  and  irised  rain 

The  first  windy  light  comes  through 

When  hills  are  lowered  before  the  dawn. 

And  still  I  might  feel  my  breath  indrawn 

Could  I  but  see  that  murderous  seine 

Dredging  fat  flies  from  the  streams  of  air 

And  ugliness  dragging  up  unaware 

The  careless  iridescent  dawn. 

I  made  when  I  had  learned  to  smile 
The  knobbed  and  scaly  crocodile, 
Blue-buttocked,  feathery-whiskered  apes, 
And  monkeys  with  brown  tendril  shapes; 
I  made  when  I  had  learned  to  laugh 
The  painted  ludicrous  giraffe, 
The  sluggish  hippopotamus, 


iyo      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Leathery,  lewd,  preposterous: 

The  dwarfed  and  bulked  grotesquery 

Under  the  winds  and  beneath  the  sea. 

But  beauty  alone  had  terror 

To  lay  delight  on  my  youth,  so  that  I  shook 

As  when  the  first  of  morning  ripples  to  clearer 

Green  the  swift  lustres  of  a  brook, 

And  a  naked  bather  wades  and  is  chill. 

Yet  never  was  I  so  seamed  with  pain, 

And  for  her  sake,  that  not  one  vein 

Was  quiet,  and  carved  in  wind  I  ran, 

As  when  the  hour  was  come  to  fulfil 

The  breathing  body  of  man. 

Lying  unstirred,  one  knee  upturned, 

Through  ruddy  loose  hair  and  the  broad 

Sloped  shoulders,  down  to  the  noble  thigh,  there 

burned 

The  gracious  indolent  ardour  and 
Cloudy  repose  of  a  god. 
I  breathed  on  his  face,  and  my  breath 
Went  sharp   through   his   side;    stretched   out  my 

hand — 

A  shudder  of  light  tumbled  his  hair, 
And  he  turned  his  sleep  to  a  stare,  aware 
Of  beauty  and  aware  of  death. 
And  something  came  back  to  my  blood,  I  recalled 
Lucifer's  face,  and  the  circled  crowd — 
Dim  crescents  of  wings,  flushed  faces  enthralled, 
And  the  lifted  throat  despair  had  made  proud ! 


The  Death  of  God  171 

It  is  long  since  I  have  done  aught  but  look 

Through  blinkered  eyes  at  images 

Which  once  had  halted  my  heart's  blood, 

As  an  old  man  shrunk  to  a  hood 

Sits  quiet,  pondering  a  book, 

For  which  in  his  youth  he  had  foregone  ease, 

Or  the  mouth  of  a  girl,  or  gold. 

Crouched  over  my  bones  and  old, 

I  have  long  leaned  chin  upon  wrist 

And  let  my  thought  twist  and  untwist 

Like  a  black  weed  dragged  in  a  stream, 

And  wondered  indeed  if  I  exist, 

Or  am  but  the  end  of  a  dream. 

Ah,  why  must  all  things  come  upon  trouble 

And  all  that  sultry  passion  seem 

A  rustle  of  wind  in  the  dry  stubble — 

Unless  from  the  first  I  failed  in  thought? 

The  wheels  of  the  chariots  were  wrought 
Of  purest  bronze,  but  with  a  broken  rim; 
The  unshod  chargers  fell  in  the  long  wars. 
For  all  their  silver  ribaldry  the  stars 
Go  mad  in  their  courses,  a  dry  skull 
Rots  where  the  moon  was  beautiful; 
The  suns  were  pocked  at  birth  with  scars. 

Oh,  violent  and  young,  distraught 
And  exulted  with  undrunk  wine,  I  brought 
Vast  splendours  from  the  earlier  night, 
Yet  failed  because  I  held  in  despite 
The  labour  and  repose  of  thought. 


172      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Is  this  shrunk  star  the  flaming  dream 

Which  came  with  islands  and  bright-scaled  water, 

Wheeling  a  dark  and  radiant  rim 

As  near  and  away  from  the  sun  it  sped? 

Was  it  for  this  I  sought  or 

Sat  in  labour?  for  this  that  Lucifer 

Sang,  the  unshadowable  light-bearer? 

And  of  man,  of  man,  what  shall  be  said? 

I  would  my  heart  were  piteous 

That  I  might  pity  him !     He  lifts  his  head 

So  bravely  to  the  sun,  is  amorous 

Of  beauty,  conquest  and  delight; 

Spends  blood  upon  banners;  drums  the  earth 

With  adventurous  tramplings;  shrills  the  air 

With  the  insolent  envy  of  his  mirth. 

What  have  I  made  of  him?     What — to  requite 

A  love  more  desperate  than  despair? 

A  poor  creature  smeared  with  his  own  dung, 

Who  struts  a  little  being  young 

And  has  scarcely  sounded  his  own  distress 

Before  he  has  crumbled  to  rottenness. 

Distinguished  on  a  gilded  couch 

He  mutters  under  his  dying  breath 

Of  some  old  plan  of  lust  or  wrath, 

Unaccomplished,  beyond  his  touch. 

Or  left  beneath  a  broken  rafter 

Crouched  on  a  straw  heap,  unwarmed,  alone, 

A  stench  of  frayed  flesh  about  a  bone, 

He  counts  that  best  which  never  was, 

Remembering  how  the  wise  drew  laughter, 


The  Death  of  God  173 

And  dead  madmen  were  accounted  wise ; 
How  lovers  had  but  their  blinded  eyes 
And  Caesar's  armies  a  tune  of  brass. 

Has  the  sun  no  molten  core  where  I  may  be  hid 
Is  there  no  penitential  fire  to  shrive  me? 
O,  man,  man,  man,  forgive  me, 
I  wrought,  not  knowing  what  I  did ! 

I  will  start  up,  dragging  these  bones 

Knee  after  knee, — if  it  must  be, 

Drag  this  loose  strength,  knee  after  knee, 

And  come  at  last  on  the  shaken  thrones 

Of  the  last  golden  dynasties 

Of  time;  startle  the  suns,  and  leave  their  skies 

A  smouldering  heap  of  palace  stones 

Set  in  the  flaring  dusk  of  a  city 

Where  none  is  loud  for  pain  or  for  pity. 

I  will  loose  the  stars  from  their  high  stud 

And  lash  their  heavy-hooved  stampede 

Till  foundering  they  darken,  broken  with  speed; 

Dabble  the  moon's  face  with  earth's  blood, 

That  not  one  man  shall  be  left  at  length 

To  taunt  me  with  enduring  youth. 

I  have  forgot — I  have  no  strength ! 

I  am  gnawn  clean  by  a  ravening  tooth. 

The  blood  in  my  wrist  is  so  sucked  and  thinned 

I  cannot  drag  my  beard  from  the  wind 

Where  its  ravelled  cords  are  tossed  and  lying. 

It  is  not  man  but  god  who  is  dying ! 


174      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

But  how  had  I  known  that  a  god  should  grow  old 
And  his  bright  hair  thin  to  a  streaked  whiteness, 
His  beard  fall  long  and  clotted  with  mould 
Whose  heart  had  been  as  the  dawn  for  lightness? 
How  had  I  dreamt  that  at  last  I  should  look 
On  the  stars  in  their  tumult,  and  find  such  pain 
In  a  world  I  had  thought  to  have  made  without  stain 
That  my  head  would  sink  in  my  elbow's  crook, 
My  throat  give  sobs  in  the  place  of  breath, 
My  mouth  ask  easily  after  death? 

My  face  is  turned  toward  death,  and  yet, 

Weak,  bewildered  and  blind,  I  grope 

Still  for  the  unappeasable  hope 

That  sleep,  not  death,  shall  touch  my  brain, 

And  touch  my  eyelids,  and  restore 

Youth  and  all  youth  lacked  before. 

It  may  be  I  shall  start  up  again 

And  put  on  strength  like  golden  greaves 

To  the  oily  shins  of  a  young  man  set, 

And  shake  the  stars  till  they  fall  like  leaves 

In  an  autumn  drift  along  the  air; 

Know  tumult  again  and  wisdom,  and  tear 

In  the  delighted  lust  of  my  heart 

The  broad  beams  of  the  world  apart, 

To  build  again,  in  another  kind, 

The  orbs  and  whirlwinds  of  my  mind. 


Resurrection 

Archer  sat  in  his  tent  where  the  air  was  a  shadow 
cast  by  stained  canvas  walls.  A  mist  of  tobacco, 
blue  as  evening,  drifted  from  his  fingers.  His  mind, 
restive  with  idleness,  fidgeted  with  objects,  like  the 
hands  of  a  sick  child:  a  cross-legged  wooden  cot 
padded  with  olive  blankets,  a  painted  locker  trunk, 
a  chair  of  unplaned  wood,  a  makeshift  table  holding 
an  empty,  brazen  shell  crammed  with  branches  of 
dark  fragrant  green. 

He  crushed  out  the  fire  of  his  cigarette  and  tossed 
it  to  the  ground.  The  burnished  shell  had  a 
sombre  glint  of  green  where  the  dark  leaves 
shadowed  it,  the  green  linden  leaves  and  the  dan 
gling  greenish-white  clusters,  spreading  heavily  over 
the  rounded  brass.  He  plucked  at  the  threaded 
flowers,  cloying  the  air  with  a  sweetish  smell,  dust 
ing  his  hands  with  sulphur-pale  pollen.  And  the 
smell  brought  back  to  him  a  scene  out  of  his  child 
hood  in  Maryland:  a  frail,  white  boy  of  ten  lying 
between  cool  sheets  on  a  sunlit  bed,  begging  his 
mother  to  bring  him  an  armful  of  linden,  green 
leaves  and  the  heavy  sweet  bloom.  He  remembered 
the  silvery  dark  trunks  of  the  linden  trees  which  had 
stood  in  a  curved  line  on  the  drive  to  the  house,  the 

175 


Ij6      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

shaded  road  and  the  white  stones  at  the  border. 
How  strange  it  was  that  this  boy  of  a  forgotten 
May  twelve  years  ago,  delicate,  with  inquisitive 
grey  eyes  and  hair  blond  as  linden  pollen,  should  be 
sitting  here  on  this  alien  field,  under  Montfaucon, 
a  first  lieutenant  of  Infantry  in  command  of  a  com 
pany  of  American  soldiers,  guarding  a  half  thou 
sand  German  prisoners  of  war.  He  had  thought 
of  many  things  for  that  boy,  but  never,  for  all  the 
absurdity  of  his  imaginings,  of  this  plain  over  which 
the  autumn  before  his  own  countrymen  had  fought 
so  long  and  so  hard,  over  which  now  the  spring 
wandered  like  a  vagabond,  in  a  discoloured  ragged- 
ness,  more  desolate  than  any  autumn. 

A  week  had  passed  since  he  had  come  here,  hot 
without  rain.  Always  it  seemed,  the  sky  hung  over 
this  difficult  land  an  arid  blue,  heavy  with  heat, 
cloudless.  Each  morning  the  German  prisoners 
marched  out  in  a  long  unwieldy  column,  with  a  tithe 
of  guards,  to  repair  the  roads  broken  by  shellfire. 
After  them,  as  soon  as  the  roads  were  made  pass 
able,  came  the  trucks,  to  tear  open  the  ground  and 
recover  the  scattered  slain,  to  collect  these  isolated 
blanketed  dead,  box  them,  and  carry  them  to  the 
slopes  of  Romagne,  there  to  be  reinterred,  ranked 
again  in  precise  lines,  with  identical  white  crosses 
set  above  them,  stained  with  a  name  or  nameless. 
Twice  daily  the  trucks  went  out  from  the  town  of 
Romagne,  negro  workmen  and  white  non-coms 
perched  on  their  sides.  Twice  each  day,  at  noon 


Resurrection  177 


and  late  in  the  afternoon,  they  passed  his  camp, 
lumbering  heavily,  leaving  on  the  air  a  slow  defuno 
tive  odour,  the  unmistakable,  unforgettable  odour 
of  human  decay. 

Idle  and  unutterably  lonely,  he  almost  wished  that 
Bleeker  were  here,  Bleeker  his  second  lieutenant 
whom  he  had  come  to  hate  with  all  the  hatred  of 
exacerbated  nerves.  Bleeker  would  come  in  pres 
ently,  two  days  late  from  his  leave  in  Paris,  twist 
ing  a  grin  under  that  absurdly  long  nose  of  his. 
"Lootnant,"  he  would  say,  "I  know  I'm  overstayed, 
but  I  just  naturally  couldn't  get  away  from  the  ma- 
demoselles."  He  would  let  his  musette  bag  slide 
to  the  ground  by  drooping  one  shoulder.  .  .  .  Yet 
it  would  be  a  relief  of  a  sort  to  have  Bleeker  here 
again. 

A  shadow  darkened  the  sun-stained  flap  of  the 
tent,  and  Archer  tossed  the  fragrant  twig  on  the 
littered  table. 

"Come  in!"  he  shouted. 

A  soldier  drew  back  the  loose  flaps  and  bending 
came  into  the  tent. 

"Lieutenant,  sir,  there's  a  Q.  M.  lieutenant  here 
from  Romagne  says  you  sent  for  him  to  take  up 
this  grave  out'n  the  stockade." 

The  soldier  was  a  bulky  Georgian  who  spoke  in  a 
plaintive  drawl.  The  cheeks  puffed  under  his  pale 
eyes  were  glazed  with  red;  his  hair  was  the  rainy 
yellow  of  hayricks  exposed  to  the  wetness  of  au 
tumn.  Always  ill  at  ease  with  officers,  he  stooped 


178      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

uncomfortably  under  the  sloping  tent  to  keep  his 
distance. 

"All  right,  Waters,  tell  the  sergeant  I'll  be  right 
there." 

"Yes  sir."  The  soldier  backed  out  of  the  tent. 
Archer  followed  him. 

Outside  in  the  dusty  sunlight  stood  a  truck  ob 
structing  the  roadway,  chortling  under  its  long 
heavy  body.  Beneath  the  driver's  hood  a  negro 
sprawled,  his  loose  forearms  hanging  over  the 
wheel.  Two  negro  soldiers  clothed  in  blue  denim 
leaped  from  the  board  of  the  truck,  dragging  after 
them  picks  and  spades  and  coils  of  wire.  They 
moved  slowly,  grudgingly,  like  tame  crows  from 
their  food. 

Across  the  road  the  tents  of  the  Americans 
marched  in  motionless  precision,  a  double  file  of 
ochreous-brown  pyramids.  To  their  left,  still  bor 
dering  the  road,  was  the  stockade,  a  platoon  of  can 
vas  pyramids,  rigidly  ranked,  enclosed  by  a  high 
fence  of  weathered  posts  and  the  steely  glint  of 
barbed  wire.  From  each  post  arms  bent  inward 
hanging  a  curtain  of  wire.  The  sky  was  a  monot 
onous  haze  of  dull  blue  thinning  whitely  toward  the 
high  sun. 

Archer  entered  the  stockade.  At  the  entrance 
a  palish  boy  presented  arms,  turning  on  him  the  wist 
ful  eyes  of  a  tired  child.  Across  the  stockade  fol 
lowing  the  interminable  strands  of  rain-bright  wire, 
another  sentry,  with  drooping  head  and  sagging 


Resurrection  179 


bayoneted  rifle,  paced  drowzily.  Before  the  first 
tent,  the  prisoner  sergeant  major,  a  small  wiry 
Prussian  clad  in  rusty  green,  crouched  over  a  wicker 
basket  in  which  he  had  imprisoned  a  magpie.  At 
Archer's  approach,  he  stiffened  tautly  and  clashed 
his  brodequins,  his  reddish  mustaches  protruding 
bushily  toward  his  unseeing  eyes,  the  varnished  visor 
of  his  cap  making  a  black  crescent  of  light  as  he 
moved.  Archer  saw  that  a  small  group  of  Ameri 
cans  had  collected  about  the  grave.  The  white 
cruciform  stake  was  down;  a  pine  box,  newly  planed 
and  lidless,  the  length  of  a  man,  lay  at  one  side. 
Over  the  grave  with  feet  wide  apart  stood  an  officer 
impatient  for  the  negroes  to  begin. 

"Hullo,  Lieutenant.  I  got  your  notice,  but  this 
is  the  first  chance  I've  had  to  get  here.  We're 
pretty  busy  up  there  at  Romagne  now — runnin'  'em 
in  at  the  rate  of  three  hunderd  a  day  now.  All 
right  you  men,  le's  go." 

He  was  an  unkempt  little  man,  who,  when  he 
talked,  jerked  his  head  like  a  bird,  and  the  wax- 
like  blue  film  on  his  eyes  made  them  like  a  bird's 
eyes. 

Sullenly  the  negroes  began  to  dig.  The  starve!' 
ing  sod,  rusty  with  sorrel,  gaped  under  the  strokes 
of  the  pick  and  spat  out  pebbles  and  thick  clots  of 
clay.  The  point  of  the  pick  overturned  clumps  of 
grass,  the  clinging  earth  threaded  with  tiny  fila 
ments,  white  as  nerves.  The  first  negro  tore  the 
sod  from  the  grave  and  stood  back  leaning  on  his 


i8o      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

pickhandle,  turning  his  humid  brown  eyes  and 
stained  eyeballs  on  his  companion,  who  took  his 
place  on  the  grave  shovelling  away  the  loose  peb 
bles  and  grass,  laying  bare  a  level  of  naked  clay. 

The  negroes  worked  alternately,  rhythmically,  as 
though  to  the  unheard  sound  of  an  obscene  savage 
incantation,  marking  time  with  the  dull  thud  of  the 
pick  and  the  steely  scraping  of  the  spade  against 
stone.  The  air,  heavy  with  heat,  brought  slow 
drops  of  sweat  from  the  black,  dusted  foreheads  of 
the  negroes.  Sullenly,  half  timorously,  they  deep 
ened  the  pit,  grunting  as  they  dug. 

The  soldiers  had  at  first  watched  in  silence,  but 
it  was  not  in  their  nature  to  be  long  awed  by  any 
thing,  and  presently  they  began  to  bicker  among 
themselves.  .  .  . 

"They  could  take  me  out  an'  shoot  me  fore  I'd 
touch  one  of  them  goddam  stiffs." 

"The  hell  you  would  too.  You'd  goddam  do 
what  you're  told  in  this  army."  Archer  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  company  clerk  above  the  blur  of 
words. 

"Well,  you  c'n  let  me  chase  prisoners,  corp." 

"Say,  Lieutenant,"  a  sergeant  drawled,  "Yuh 
don't  hafta  put  your  hans  on  'em  do  yuh?" 

The  officer  looked  up,  and  Archer  noticed  that  his 
belt  sagged  below  the  waist  and  that  his  puttees 
were  dull  and  clogged  with  clay. 

"Sure.  I  go  through  their  pockets  and  every 
thing — you've  got  rubber  gloves  on.  At  first  feel- 


Resurrection  181 


ing  around  for  their  identification  tags  gets  you  a 
little,  but  you  soon  get  so's  you  don't  .mind  any  of 
it." 

"Yuh  don't  hafta  feel  for  they  tags,  do  yuh?" 
"You  gotta  find  out  if  you've  got  the  right  man, 
haven't  you?     Lots  of  'em  don't  have  the  same 
name  on  their  crosses.     But  we've  got  pretty  nearly 
all  of  'em  right  now  I  guess." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  it."  It  was  the  company 
clerk  again,  a  swarthy  youth  of  twenty  with  black 
eyes  set  wide  apart  like  a  Mongolian's  and  a  nose 
that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  broken  in  child 
hood.  "My  father's  an  undertaker.  He's  got  the 
largest  undertakin'  establishment  in  Tipville,  Indi 
ana,  and  when  I  was  a  kid  he  always  wanted  me  to 
be  an  undertaker  too.  So  one  night  he  shut  me  in 
a  room  with  a  dead  corpse  and  locked  the  door  and 
kept  me  there  all  night  so's  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  no 


more." 


The  officer  hovered  at  the  edge  of  the  pit,  look 
ing,  with  his  crooked  nose  and  blue-filmed  eyes  like 
a  chicken,  like  an  old  cock  moulting  his  dusty  and 
bedraggled  plumage.  He  took  the  pick  from  one 
of  the  negroes  and  dug  vigorously  for  a  minute. 

"There,  that's  more  like  it.  Up  this  way  a  little. 
We'll  have  him  out  before  you  know  it." 

Maladroitly,  stubbornly,  the  negro  placed  him 
self  in  the  shallow  pit  to  dig  again.  Already  this 
cleft  in  the  earth  was  two  feet  deep  and  these  men 
were  buried,  each  close  to  the  spot  where  he  had 


i8a      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

been  killed,  with  only  so  much  earth  as  would  cover 
their  putrescence.  Archer  dreaded  the  moment 
when  the  first  flesh  would  be  exposed. 

The  earth  in  the  hole  became  cooler  and  more 
moist.  The  negroes  no  longer  dared  thrust  their 
heavy  feet  into  the  pit,  but  leaned  from  the  edge, 
digging  slowly  and  cautiously,  pecking  at  the  earth 
with  the  steel  point,  scraping  the  earth  away  as 
soon  as  it  was  loosened.  Something  damp  and 
woolly  appeared — a  mouldy  patch  of  blanket.  The 
officer  took  the  pick  and  straddling  the  pit  deepened 
the  sides,  deftly  loosening  the  remaining  earth.  An 
equivocal  mass,  bundled  in  olive  drab  wool  bulked 
under  the  sticky  clay.  Once  where  the  pit  had  torn 
the  rotted  blanket,  it  crumbled  and  pushed  out  a 
lichen  green  grit. 

"Now  give  me  the  wire — we'll  drag  this  one  out 
by  the  shoulders." 

Archer  turned  away,  looking  out  over  that  hard 
arid  plain  to  which  the  freshness  and  green  of  May 
could  bring  no  relief,  nor  the  sun  which  elsewhere 
gilded  the  earth  any  colour.  The  uneven  ground 
was  still,  after  a  winter  of  rain,  littered  with  the  re 
fuse  of  battle,  knapsacks,  pack-carriers,  bits  of  clo 
thing,  shoes,  rifles — everything  that  could  be  thrown 
away  in  the  hurry  and  despair  of  fight.  Pitted,  bro 
ken  by  depressions,  the  greenish  drab  soil  dragged 
slowly  toward  the  hills  at  the  sky's  edge,  the  once 
contented  hills,  rounded  with  thickets,  their  slopes 
open  and  fox-red  where  six  months  before  hollow 


Resurrection  183 


shelters  had  been  scooped  out  by  bayonets.  In  the 
dizzy  blue  distance,  overtopping  the  nearer  trees, 
shone  the  heights  of  the  Argonne  ragged  with  gay 
green  forests.  Over  them  the  sky  drew  thin 
streamers  of  hazy  white. 

Then  he  thought:  "This  is  too  soft.  I'm  a 
damn  weak-wad  if  I  can't  stand  looking  at  it." 
And  he  walked  back,  keeping  close  to  the  barbed 
wire. 

The  soldiers  were  silent  and  constrained.  The 
negroes  crouched  sullenly,  blue  denim  figures  bent 
at  the  side  of  the  grave,  the  sweat  curdling  the  dust 
on  their  idle  black  hands.  The  officer,  one  foot 
thrust  forward,  the  other  crooked  under  his  weight, 
tugged  at  the  wire,  which  held  under  its  lower  loops 
an  amorphous  mass,  caught  beneath  the  armpits. 
Archer  saw  first  a  knitted  sweater,  still  intact  but 
soppy  from  the  putrefaction  beneath  it.  A  clayey 
brown  rag  was  over  the  face.  The  taut  wire  pulled 
again,  sharply;  something  broke  near  the  throat  and 
a  greenish  blue  substance,  like  a  fowl's  ordure, 
crumbled  and  fell  over  the  sweater. 

"What  the  hell !     Give  me  that  pick." 

An  arm  was  embedded  in  the  earth  at  one  side. 
The  pick  tore  into  the  soft  flesh  and  the  aperture 
showed  a  horrid  pink;  something  was  left  behind 
in  the  hard  clay.  The  cadaver  began  to  lift  itself 
from  the  grave.  The  jointless  head  fell  back, 
thickening  the  greenish  ooze  on  the  neck;  the  un 
even  arms  spread  out  with  each  jerk  of  the  wire, 


184      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

hunching  their  slimy  sleeves.  In  the  space  where 
the  thighs  divide  a  glinting  puddle  of  muck  had 
seeped  through  the  breeches  cloth.  The  legs 
trailed  woodenly. 

The  cadaver  bent  backward  over  the  brink  of  the 
pit  and  dragged  heavily  on  the  ground. 

"There !  he  didn't  come  so  badly  at  that.  A  lot 
better'n  some  of  'em.  Now  roll  him  over  on  the 
blanket." 

The  negroes  pushed  the  lifeless  man  over  the  sod 
and  turned  his  bulk  face  up  on  a  clean  blanket.  The 
officer  began  palping  the  dead  flesh,  searching  for 
the  metal  disc  at  the  neck. 

Disgust  clutched  at  Archer's  sides.  It  was  hor 
rible  that  this  putrescent  thing  sprawling  on  the 
ground  should  have  been  a  few  months  before  a 
boy,  fine  with  youth,  warm  and  strong.  He  had 
thought  of  death  in  battle  as  something  clean  and 
swift  in  its  anguish.  He  had  thought  it  a  desirable 
thing  that  life  should  go  out  violently  when  the 
blood  was  at  its  full  and  the  body  unspent.  He 
had  never  dreaded  death,  only  manglement  and  dis 
ease  and  the  slow  dissolution  of  time.  But  here 
the  body  was  not  utterly  dead;  it  had  acquired  a 
new  life  in  its  very  putrefaction.  It  would  go  on 
for  a  long  time  yet,  still  younger  than  the  earth  in 
which  it  was  hidden,  not  utterly  dead  as  the  dust 
and  stones  are  dead. 

He  stared  down  into  the  violated  pit.     The  clay 


Resurrection  185 


looked  mildewed.  Black  flies  were  dangled  in  the 
air.  Hands  were  fumbling  at  a  green  discoloured 
throat.  Wires  were  wheeling  in  circles  of  steel 
with  tiny  prickles  of  light.  His  stomach  was  turn 
ing  with  the  wires.  His  eyes  were  being  jabbed  by 
the  steel  barbs.  That  was  why  he  was  so  hot.  He 
must  get  away  ...  to  his  tent  ...  it  was 
cool  there  with  linden  boughs  and  shadowy  and 
sweet. 

Behind  him  walked  the  southern  sergeant  and  the 
company  clerk. 

"I  bet  them  black  bastards  thinks  about  ghosts 
the  rest  of  their  life." 

"Well,  that's  all  they're  fit  for,  ain't  they? 
Every  time  they  put  'em  in  to  fight  they  run — right 
over  in  these  woods  here — the  black  sons  o'  bitches 
ain't  fit  for  gun  fodder!" 

He  walked  back  to  the  road,  dragging  a  shadow 
not  cast  by  the  sun.  The  rumbling  of  trucks  bump 
ing  all  day  long  over  the  roads,  with  jangling  chains 
and  strident  gears,  trailing  the  same  pervasive  odour 
of  decay;  the  blanketed  mass  he  had  just  seen,  with 
its  poor  upturned  face,  had  broken  down  within  him 
some  last  wall  of  resisting  flesh.  Even  the  air 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  dead,  and  this  plain,  lying 
as  it  did  midway  between  the  Argonne  Hills  and 
the  Meuse,  had,  perhaps  because  he  was  an  Ameri 
can,  become  to  him  the  centre  of  all  the  rotting  des 
olation  which  filled  the  world. 


1 86      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

On  one  side  of  the  road,  rising  behind  his  own 
tent,  was  a  green  slope,  topped  with  thickets,  where 
the  spring  renewed  itself  remorselessly.  And  on 
one  side  was  that  desolate  plain  where  so  many  of 
the  young  had  died.  He  stared  at  the  dessicated 
grass  and  the  dun  weeds,  the  earth  pocked  and  fe 
ver  skinned,  made  sterile  by  long  pain.  His 
squeamishness  gave  way  to  pity,  pity  for  himself  and 
the  others.  After  all,  it  would  have  been  better  he 
thought,  better  than  this,  to  have  gone  in  the  carn 
age  and  assault  of  war — not  to  feel  the  pain  of  de 
sire  any  more,  to  have  the  rain  run  through  his  body 
as  once  the  blood  had  run,  to  have  his  bones  grow 
old  under  earth,  not  to  be,  or  to  be  only  as  those 
others  were,  to  share  the  dark,  vindictive  life  of  the 
earth,  and  not  to  know. 

Some  one  was  talking  in  his  tent;  Bleeker  must 
have  come  back.  He  felt  at  that  moment  too  utterly 
exposed  to  bear  the  level  look  of  Bleeker's  indecent 
eyes,  and  stood,  nerveless  and  cold,  outside  the  tent, 
turning  his  face  toward  the  blue,  brutal  glare  of 
noon.  The  negroes  returned  to  the  truck,  carrying 
picks  and  spades.  The  smoke  from  the  mess  shack 
thickened  darkly  against  the  sun;  under  their  shed 
the  cooks  moved  between  the  tables  and  the  fires  like 
ruddy  shadows.  After  all  he  was  but  a  man  among 
others.  Lifting  the  flap  he  went  into  the  tent. 

Bleeker  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  tent,  his 
cap  set  jauntily  on  one  side,  talking  to  his  orderly. 

"Hello  Lootnant!     I'm  back  at  last,  and  boy,  1 


Resurrection  187 


want  to  tell  you  I've  drunk  so  much  champagne  in 
the  last  five  days,  I'm  just  naturally  breathing  bub 
bles." 

Archer  sat  down  on  his  cot.  The  orderly  left 
the  tent. 

"I  was  all  set  to  come  back  night  'fore  last,  and 
then  I  thought  I'll  just  go  down  to  the  Olympia  and 
have  one  more  look  af  the  mademoselles  'fore  I 
came  back.  Well  I  was  standin'  there  at  the  bar 
downstairs,  with  my  foot  cocked  on  the  rail.  And 
there  was  one  of  these  tousled  blonds  sittin'  on  one 
of  those  high  stools,  you  know,  and  I  was  kiddin' 
her  along — she  wasn't  a  bit  bad — she  didn't  have 
no  stockings  on,  just  bare  legs  the  whole  way,  and 
high  heel  slippers — when  in  comes  my  old  captain 
out  of  the  Thirty-eighth,  with  two  of  the  best  look- 
in'  janes  you  ever  saw.  And,  boy,  I  was  lost  right 
there.  I  just  said,  'Good-bye,  Montfaucon!'  I 
just  couldn't  get  away  till  this,  morning." 

"It's  all  right.  There  wasn't  much  of  anything 
to  do." 

"I  didn't  think  there  would  be,  and  anyhow  this 
was  somethin'  too  good  to  pass  up. 

"You  don't  have  to  check  out  no  more  with  the 
M.  P.'s.  You  know  how  they  used  to  be  in  Paris. 
But  I  was  kinda  skittish,  so  I  eased  down  to  the  sta 
tion  this  morning  about  five  o'clock.  And  the  first 
goddam  thing  I  saw  when  I  got  there  was  an  M.  P. 
I  kept  one  eye  slanted  on  him  and  started  beatin'  it 
for  the  train,  when  up  he  comes,  and  salutes  just  as 


i88      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

nice  as  you  please,  and  says,  'Can  I  show  the  Lieu 
tenant  where  to  get  his  ticket?'  and  'Where's  the 
Lieutenant  goin'  ?'  and  'That's  your  track,  sir.' 
Boy,  you  could've  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather. 
By  the  way,  I  got  some  good  cognac  here — five  star 
stuff.  How  'bout  a  drink  before  mess?" 

"Well  .  .  .  yes,  give  me  a  drink." 

Archer  tipped  the  bottle  to  his  mouth,  scraping 
his  throat  with  the  raw  liquor,  warming  and  com 
forting  his  stomach. 

Bleeker  slung  his  musette  bag  over  his  shoulder. 
"I  think  I'll  take  a  look  in  at  my  tent,  and  dump  this 
junk  before  mess,"  he  said,  "Take  another  drink." 

Archer  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  young  officer 
in  front  of  him  with  his  hard  assertive  air  and  the 
voice  that  seemed  to  start  from  too  far  down  in 
his  throat.  It  did  not  much  matter  that  he  had 
come  back. 

"Here's  yesterday's  paper,  if  you  want  to  see  it," 
Bleeker  turned  and,  stooping,  went  out  of  the  tent. 

Archer  picked  up  the  paper,  the  Paris  edition  of 
an  American  journal.  Fashionable  people  were  ar 
riving  at  fashionable  hotels,  dining  in  company,  be 
ing  entertained  by  Napoleonic  princesses.  The 
Peace  Conference  had  met  in  the  Hall  of  Mirrors 
in  the  Palace  of  Versailles.  The  German  emissary 
had,  with  characteristic  arrogance,  remained  stand 
ing  while  addressing  the  elderly  and  elegant  Allied 
politicians.  There  had  been  a  loud  outcry.  The 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  was  holding  boxing  bouts  at  the  Palais 


Resurrection  189 


de  Glace,  to  provide  the  American  soldiers  on  leave 
with  wholesome  and  moral  amusement. 

Staring  distractedly  at  the  obscure  print,  he 
thought  of  all  these  impotent  fastidious  people  in 
Paris  who,  whatever  they  touched  of  civilized 
thought  and  grace,  left  it  inane;  he  saw  that  they 
represented  a  desolation  no  less  complete  than  the 
abrupt  height  of  Montfaucon,  and  the  hillside  under 
it  pitted  with  open  graves,  empty  now  as  tombs  of 
the  resurrection.  For  the  rest  there  was  Bleeker, 
with  thick  reddish  skin  and  hard  mouth,  standing 
with  legs  apart  loosening  a  bawdy  tale.  And  he 
hated  Bleeker. 

He  flung  himself  on  the  canvas  cot  and  lay  there 
with  arms  distended,  his  face  rubbing  against  the 
soiled  pillow,  his  thoughts  wheeling  confusedly  as 
bubbles  in  an  uneven  stream.  He  resented  fiercely 
being  held  here,  trapped  and  held  in  this  charnel 
place,  away  from  the  dizzy  green  and  gay  abandon 
of  cities,  the  sidewalks  fragrant  and  rustling  with 
silk.  What  wild  joy  it  would  be  but  to  stretch  his 
legs  under  the  tables  in  painted  cafes,  and  to  drink, 
to  drink  long. 

Anywhere  would  be  better  than  here,  where  the 
water  was  tainted  and  the  soil  dead,  and  even  the 
air  came  unclean.  In  Paris  whatever  was  left  of 
life  ran  at  the  full.  The  sunlight  came  to  the  streets 
strained  through  a  green  net  of  leaves,  and  the 
night  would  be  filled  with  lights  and  amorous  voices, 
and  women  were  there  who  could  be  bought  for  a 


190      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

night  and  forgotten  in  the  morning.  Nothing  was 
left  but  the  fine  vigour  of  his  body,  still  young,  and 
beginning  to  stir  with  heat  from  the  liquor  he  had 
drunk.  He  lay  on  his  cot  stretched  with  resentment 
and  sultry  desires  until  aflame  through  his  whole 
length  with  youth  and  loneliness. 

Bleeker  thrust  his  ruddy  face  between  the  flaps  of 
the  tent. 

"What  t'  hell's  the  matter,  Lootnant!  Mess  is 
ready,  let's  go.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hound  dog.  I 
didn't  have  nothin'  this  morning  but  some  bread  and 
coffee.  And  last  night  was  a  hard  night  too,  I'm 
tellin'  you." 

"All  right.  I'm  not  very  hungry,  but  I  guess 
there's  nothing  else  to  do."  Then  he  said,  "I  might 
go  to  Paris  myself  if  I  can  get  a  leave  through." 

Outside,  he  stooped  for  a  moment  to  twist  and 
fasten  the  loose  ribbon  of  his  spiral  puttee. 
Bleeker  glanced  across  the  road. 

"You've  had  that  grave  taken  up  out  of  the 
stockade,  I  see,"  he  said,  "haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Archer,  "They  came  for  him  this 
morning."  And  straightening  his  body  he  felt  the 
sun  warm  on  his  face  and  hands,  and  the  light  of 
May  burnished  his  uncovered  hair. 


Epilogue 

Nay,  Pluto!    I  have  dwelt  with  death  too  long! 

My  spirit  chafes;  the  darkness  cannot  hold  me. 
These  lips  were  shaped  to  frame  a  freer  song 

Before  the  strengthless  shadows  shall  enfold  me! 
Apollo,  Phoebus!  hear  me  while  I  pray: 

Consume  the  tears,  the  bitterness,  the  wrath! 

0  thou  who  didst  the  Pythian  serpent  slay, 

Slay  thou  the  Furies  who  make  black  my  path! 

Well  do  I  know  how,  terrible  and  clear, 

Thou  cam'st  to  Krissa  with  a  blaze  so  white 
The  women  trembled  and  cried  out  for  fear 

And  veiled  their  dazzled  faces  from  the  sight; 
Well  do  I  know  how,  speeding  with  the  ships, 

To  Sirmio  from  Lesbos,  a  fierce  ray, 
Thy  word  was  borne  to  light  on  Sirmian  lips 

The  fire  that  burns  the  centuries  away. 

Apollo,  Phcebus!  thou  who  dwell'st  in  fire, 

Breathing  no  life  save  where  thou  dost  destroy, 

Who  leavst  thy  lovers  wounded  with  desire, 
Distraught  with  passion,  shuddering  with  joy; 

1  would  be  borne  by  fire,  as  by  a  wind, 

I  would  make  dumb  all  voices  with  a  note 
That  stops  men's  hearts — until  mine  eyes  be  blind 
With  splendour  and  till  singing  burst  my  throat!- 

191 


192      The  Undertaker's  Garland 

Till  those  who  cried  in  terror  and  in  hate 
Against  the  flame  that  brands  my  brow — at  last, 

Finding  my  flesh  so  charred,  so  little  great, 

Shall  hush  to  know  that  here  a  god  has  passed! 


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